Black Lives Matter and Me Too!

Do you ever hear words coming out of your mouth, and think to yourself “Damn…. How batshit crazy am I??”

The last time this happened to me was in my meeting with the PR department. We were meeting to discuss the programming for the autumn and I said, “what if I did two lectures, one on the Black Lives Matter movement and one on the Me Too movement?”

The thought process was solid. I have personal, professional, and academic experience with both.  I can talk about them both. They are related. What could go wrong…

… with discussing two of the most controversial and explosive topics in modern society, outside their original cultural context, in my third language?

I clearly wasn’t firing on all cylinders in that meeting. But because I am charming with my wit and sense of humor (the big American smile doesn’t hurt either), my programs were approved.

My personal reaction:

I dove into researching, and dusted off the cobwebs from my memories:

Sitting at my computer, reading that Trayvon Martin’s murderer was acquitted when all the boy had done was walk down the street wearing a hoodie and carrying a bag of Skittles.

The stranger who grabbed my crotch when we passed each other on a sidewalk.

Having my entire university campus shocked when a young woman was gang-raped by a group of basketball players (who lived in the same university housing building as I did) and the players were allowed to finish the semester and play in the following season, while keeping their athletic scholarships. She had to drop out of school because of the trauma.

Seeing the SWAT team coming down from Ferguson Missouri to downtown St. Louis as the early Black Lives Matter protests escalated. Hearing the sound of breaking windows rising on the night air with plumes of smoke from flash bombs and screams of fear and anger, sirens and police lights zipping back and forth on my street.

Reading the news reports about the young, unarmed black man who was murdered by police four blocks from my apartment a mere 30 minutes after I had run past that very alley.

After getting hit in the legs with a willow switch by my male boss, my screamed “NO!” ignored, my husband demanded that my boss apologize to me. What my boss said was “I’m sorry you reacted how you did, but these are just our traditions, and if you don’t like it and can’t accept it, you should go back to where you came from.”

Brain physiology is something that has helped me immensely in processing the headshaking “is this really happening right now?” moments in my life. The three main parts involved in processing events are the amygdala (controls the freeze, fight or flight response), the hippocampus (processes and stores memories), and the frontal lobe (controls emotions, reason, abstract thinking, etc.). So after reviewing my memories, the amygdala and the hippocampus having a great catchup time, I dove into research to give power back to the frontal lobe.

Rational discussion:

When discussing the Me Too and Black Lives Matter movements, I think a lot of the conflict stems from a disagreement in terms (lifehack: this is the case for most disagreements and misunderstandings). Even as we try to participate in conversations, people tend to equivocate some very loaded terms. I have included a couple of them here with some general definitions.

• Fault: an action that someone carries out, or directly causes to be carried out (I didn’t step on the brake, therefore the car accident is my fault).

• Responsibility: someone caused something else to happen, be that an action or circumstances (I didn’t screw the lid onto the milk tightly enough, so the spilled milk is my responsibility).

• Vice: an intentional action or activity that causes harm to the main participant and/or a third party (overuse of alcohol is a vice).

• Foolishness: an action, activity, or belief that goes against logic and leads to undesirable outcomes (pulling the tail of an aggressive dog is an example of foolishness).

These terms overlap somewhat, and it can be difficult to determine where to place blame.

Let’s take a neutral example to begin. Cookies are sitting on the table and a child takes some when his mother, who has put them on the table, is not looking. We may say that the vice is stealing the cookie when the household rules state otherwise (notable: in order for the rules to be just, this counts as a vice only if the rules against taking cookies are clear to the child).

Given that the child did the stealing, it is the child’s fault.

In stealing the cookie, the child and the mother both have responsibility: the mother for putting the cookies in a place where they could be stolen, the child for taking the cookies.

The child has both responsibility and fault. Given that he did, in fact, steal the cookies, he may very well have stolen the cookies even if the mother hid them. Depending on how well the mother knows her child, it may have been foolishness on her part to put them in easy reach. But no matter where she put the cookies, it is wrong to steal cookies. No matter how natural it is to steal the cookies, given how delicious they are and how much the child loves them and wants them, it is wrong to steal cookies.

The child, as the primary actor in the stealing, has the fault.

It is not the mother’s fault.

The fine line between responsibility and fault comes into play especially in cases of alleged harassment, assault, or misconduct. Especially when all those words like vice, sin, responsibility are so loaded with personal and societal connotations. Especially when there are multiple active participants and multiple vices and multiple levels of responsibility. When discussing movements like Me Too or Black Lives Matter, it is even more intimidating. But I am going to give it a try in our two upcoming events this fall at the library.

Things to remember:

Human beings are not good at empathizing. We are good at sizing up a situation from afar and evaluating it quickly, usually on the basis of how much we can relate to it – would I do it that way? How might I do it differently? This is natural, we are pack animals with a few natural predators (though nothing poses a greater risk to us than our own stupidity). Our ancestors needed to be able to react immediately and evaluate risk quickly.

But that was centuries ago. The amygdala and hippocampus got much more of a workout back then. In the 21st century, evaluating the actions of others, we must remember that we are not in that situation we are observing, and we do not have the lived experience of the other person in that situation. Of course we would not react like they do. But we cannot say for certain that we would not react the same were we in their shoes.

Resist fearing the threat of the unfamiliar. Approach that which is different with curiosity and a willingness to listen. Be kind to others, and to yourself. You are at once perfectly unique and perfectly the same as everyone else. Look at those around you with this lens, and treat them with this same respect.

Happy Mental Health Month

*trigger warnings: suicide, self-harm*

You could say it started with the migraines.

All day, every day, waves of pain that blurred my vision and slapped me upside and backside the head.

The doctor told me, after an MRI showed that there were no clots or tumors or other things my overactive brain cooked up, to try an SSRI.

An antidepressant.

But those make you addicted, and have side effects, and they are for other people but you need to rely on yourself and your God and strength from within and above, not from without.

But God my aching head….

Two weeks into the treatment, my head still hurt from migraines… but I had never felt this way before.

Like walking from a dark and smoky room into January sunshine.

Like every inconvenience didn’t have to send me into a tailspin.

Happiness that wasn’t euphoria, just… a state of being, like being awake.

Like I wouldn’t have to wait weeks until something made me so incredibly happy that it would finally lift me up and forward for a bit, until I slowly slipped under again.

And as my body adjusted to the medicine, the migraines came further and further apart. I was glad for a break in the physical pains. As far as the emotional health, I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Then I moved across the world, and held my breath that the stress wouldn’t make the migraines worse, and that I could get the same medicine in the new place I lived.

I got called an addict.

I got called crazy.

I got called weak, imbalanced, out of the ordinary.

The owner of the house where I lived found my medicine, and said they didn’t want a crazy person living under their roof.

I was told people were scared of me.

I was told I was just sad, just missing my family, just an overly emotional American.

The headaches started to come back.

I don’t fear. Fear is a four-letter word. So is quit.

But I’m all alone here, see? I was right… all I can rely on, all I can trust, is myself. I can’t even rely on help from above, after all, from where is all this pressure and stress coming?

Can’t show emotions. Can’t show weakness. Can’t rely on others.

They tell their own toddlers, “stop crying or I’ll give you a reason to cry.” What would they say to an adult who also speaks improperly and with an accent?

They tell me if I don’t like the culture here, I can go back where I came from.

I learn that my emotions can make me demonstrative, and that makes people laugh. If I can make people laugh, at least I’m good for something. I can put something good out into the world, even if I don’t have anything good to offer. Creating something out of nothing. They won’t ask about me, and how I’m feeling, and I won’t have to be honest.

I can be kind, respond with smiling, or sassiness, and if I’m lucky they will laugh and not see me crumble.

The little me inside my head trying to run the switchboard, jumping from language track to language track, scrambling to thicken the castle walls around my heart. She will be fine, she’s done this before, she’s been doing this all my life.

Trying to be rational, put straitjackets on the scrambling emotions that press on my frontal lobe, flash floods of fight or flight responses, unreliable stimuli coming from all around me.

So tired. All the time.

The migraines are getting worse.

Little me jumping from language track to language track to build up the castle walls misses the landing more often than not.

Struggles more and more to climb back up and keep working.

Finally one night I am standing in the dark, the moon shining onto the bathroom sink. The light reflects a chalky white in polka dots in my hand, the aspirin tablets tumbling over each other in the clear plastic bottle. I guess there must be about 218 tablets therein.

Maybe this time it would finally work. The little me in my head would lie down on the tracks and I would lie down on the bathroom floor, and soon enough we wouldn’t fuck up anymore.

Somehow the bottle ended back up on the shelf, with all 218 pills still beneath the childproof lid.

The next day I called a psychiatrist my insurance would cover. I confided that I get migraines, take this medication for them, that I recently tried to “harm myself.”

“Ok, we have an opening in three months, shall I pencil you in?”

Um… Yeah, hopefully I make it another 3 months. So do write it in pencil.

“In the meantime, you need a recommendation from your primary care physician. Bring it to the appointment with you.”

I called my primary care physician the same week. “You’re the American, right? You want to talk to a psychiatrist about depression? Are you sure you aren’t just missing home?”

Even if I am just missing home, if I am missing home enough to want to stop missing anything ever again, isn’t that even more reason to get my head checked? But at least the doctor signed the paper.

When I finally got to the psychiatrist, she asked for my symptoms, life circumstances, family history. Finally, I could be honest. Not try and make someone laugh. Not try to make excuses for how I was feeling.

“You did the right thing, coming to see me. Depression is a deadly disease. People die from it. You are describing a depression/anxiety disorder with probable genetic precedence. Your brain cannot regulate its flight or fight response, or other chemicals that monitor how to react to stimuli. You have a lot of life circumstances that would make it hard for anyone to cope, even if they didn’t have their brain’s physiology working against them. Let’s try some medicine to see if we can help your brain manage your life.”

The blue paintings on the yellow walls suddenly began to swim, and the doctor’s face blurred as though a wave rushed over the camera lens. Someone saw me, and heard me, and didn’t think I was crazy or weak. She told me I had a chronic disease, a disease that can be managed, and lived with.

Lived with.

Four years later, I get flare-ups with my mental illness. I have to manage it with medicine every day, as well as other coping mechanisms – exercise, lifestyle choices, social and emotional support. Some days one coping mechanism works. Some days another one. Sometimes I run through my whole toolbox, and nothing works, I just have to go to bed and hope tomorrow goes better. 

I have to continue in self-reflection, and I am finding new layers of toxic tendencies in myself to unlearn all the time.  I am a hot mess, and make many, many mistakes.

I have been through some SHIT at the hands of other people. But hurting people hurt people, and I doubt all the people who screwed me up meant to do it. Very little of that is about me anyway.

Funnily enough, since I asked for help and began treating my symptoms as an illness and not a character flaw, I am stronger than ever. I even have managed to face my greatest earthly fears, and I have not died in the process.

Most importantly, I have had four more years of breath in my lungs, four more years of “wow” moments when I hike to the top of a hill and look at a panorama with the wind in my hair. Four more years of laughing with great people. Four more years of drinking coffee like it’s my job, coffee that’s like my soul – black and strong. Four more years of crying, even in front of others, and not losing any friends because of it. Four years of smiling at triumphant entries of spring, four years of playing in the snow, four years of watching the rhythms of seasons and seeing that nature never rushes or stresses, but always gets everything done.

Four years of hope. Not hope in a better future, hope in the mere fact that I am alive in the present.

“Where are you from?” What this immigrant wishes you thought of before you ask me about myself (NSFW)

„Jo, ahAAAAA… tak SLEČno, kdy-bych VĚDĚL, že jste Ameri-ČAN-KA, tak bych to PO-CHOPIL. (Ohhh… well miss, if I had known you were American, I would have understood)

Maybe this self-important jackass thought he was being cultured and polite by recognizing my country of origin (the manager informed him of my heritage when she was talking him down from a blowup). But after he tore me a new one because I put a few more mililiters of hot water in his lungo than he would have liked, releasing five minutes of diatribe in front of a full lobby and cafe where I worked as a waitress, he may as well have thrown the coffee in my face.

I wanted to ask him to check the water’s temperature. With his scalp.

You may think of an immigrant as someone who comes from a radically different culture, has darker skin than you do, maybe has a different religion. But technically and culturally, I am an immigrant. I left my country of origin, and attempted to establish a new life in a new country. That is the official definition of an immigrant. Even if you don’t see me as an immigrant, we can certainly agree that I am a foreigner, and most places I go, I am the only foreigner in the room.

If you care about building good relationships with foreigners, or really with anyone new that you meet, it is important to know how you come across in conversation. Allow me to share with you some things I have heard over the past six years, and what I wish the person asking the questions had known.

(And yes, I have heard all of these things at least once from a Czech person.)

“Where are you from?“

This question is innocent, but we do get asked it the most. It can and often does get tiresome, especially if we were going about our lives or talking about something interesting, and then we have to answer the same question again. If possible, get to know us a bit better, and we may even tell you without you having to ask.

“Your accent is different-interesting-exotic-weird-shocking-unexpected-drivingmecrazybecauseIcan’tplaceit.“

REALLY?! I had NO IDEA I had an accent when I speak my third language, THANK YOU for pointing that out to me.

Believe me, in our conversation, no one knows I am a foreigner better than I do. Depending on what my language capabilities are, I may be extremely self-conscious about my accent. I may have even been harassed, mistreated, or mocked because of it (in my case, I definitely have). Regardless, you don‘t need to draw my attention to it, especially if you feel compelled to tell me it is weird or shocking.

„This new language is hard, isn’t it? (insert any details about the given language). How long have you been studying it?“

There is nothing wrong with these questions, but we also get asked them a lot. And do you talk about these things (the nuances of your language’s grammar) with your friends and family over coffee? Not likely, because there are so many other interesting things to talk about in the world! You can politely say you admire our language skills, but a greater compliment is if you just talk with us about anything, like you would with anyone else. It is one of the greatest feelings in the world, when you are fighting to make your place in your new home, and those around you treat you like you belong.

“Why here?“

Again, not a bad question, but we get it a LOT. You can try asking more open ended questions: “what sort of foods do you like from here?” “Have you found anything here you like to do in your spare time? What is your favorite thing about living here?”

“Is it better here than in your home country?“

There is no good way to answer this question. If I say no, I may offend you and get homesick for my country – no one wins. If I say yes, there is probably something really terrible about my home country or life there, and I don’t want to be reminded about it– I lose. You can try asking an open-ended question, such as “what are things that stand out to you about life here?“ “What are some things you love about your home country?“

“Do you miss your family?“

…. No, they are all serial killers and I fled my country under threat of death (JOKE in my case. My family is wonderful!). You are most likely just trying to be thoughtful and sympathetic, and that is very kind of you, but the way it is worded is kind of awkward. If I don’t miss my family, the reasons are probably at least uncomfortable, if not painful, to talk about. If I do miss my family, it may make me sad to talk about missing them, especially if you and I have just met.  Try asking me open-ended questions about my family – how many siblings I have, what we like to do together, if we have gone on any trips together… really anything you would ask your local friends about their family.

“Oh you’re American? You must love volleyball/burgers/fillinwhateverthingyouthinkistypicallyamerican.“

Yes, and all dogs love to herd sheep, too.

People are different. I am not all Americans. I have my own preferences just like every other human all over the world. Don’t jump to conclusions about me. You can ask all of these as open-ended questions and I will be happy to give my opinion.

“Don’t all Americans feel this way about race/abortion/puppies/riding a bike?“

Nope. They don’t. No two people feel the same way about anything, anywhere in the world. If you want to know what I think about, ask me politely if I don’t mind sharing. Then respect my answer whether I share my insight or say I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.

„What do Americans think about _________?“

I don’t know, I can tell you what this American thinks about that, or maybe what some Americans think about that, but I definitely can’t tell you what all Americans think about that.

“So how about all those immigrants coming and taking our jobs? There are going to be waves and waves of them, soon we will be a minority.“

How about that native population in our shared current country? They can really ask some rude, biased, and uninformed questions, don’t you think?

“You’re no different than the other Mongoloids who come here and get married looking for a visa.“

Well, I hope your next sexual partner wears a condom soaked in sriracha. Trust me, your closed and sheltered brain can’t fathom the myriad of reasons why someone would come to another country at all, much less my own experiences that have led me here. So go take a long walk off a short pier. By the way, I doubt someone who is truly a Mongoloid could write an informative email to your boss about what a shitty human being you are… But I know I can!

“You’re not in your home country. If you don’t like it, you can go back where you came from.“

Normally I’d make a comment here about how you must have learned to talk shit from your mother, but that’s beneath me. Oh hey, and speaking of things that are beneath me, how is your mother these days?

Otherwise, here is a list of things you probably do without even realizing it:

Talking unclearly with lots of slang and filler words.

If youre having a conversation with me and I say “what?” that probably doesn’t mean that I don’t understand your words in and of themselves, rather that you didn’t speak clearly. Or that you used so many filler words that I got lost. Instead of switching to my language or talking to me like I am a child, try just repeating what you said again more clearly. Then I have the chance to either reinforce my learning, ask you to clarify your point, or point out a specific word that I didn’t understand. This way you also treat me more like an equal, and trust me, that is an amazing feeling.

Staring at foreigners when we are speaking our language.

We speak multiple languages. It doesn’t mean we are blind. Staring is generally considered rude by the time you enter preschool, no matter what language the person you are staring at is speaking.

Asking any question as a thin disguise to share your own opinion on the subject.

No doubt you have opinions on something. So do we. But we can tell when you ask us something just so you can say your opinions. It sounds like dont really care how things actually are. Or what we think about it. To combat this, you can say „it seems to me like ……. Is that accurate?“ „Can I share what I think about ……..?“ „I heard-read-learned that something in America is this way. Is that true?“

*** Hammering home your own point about your opinion or perspective on our country when we have already told you it is not the case.

Best case scenario, you look stupid. Worst case scenario, you look stupid while confirming that you are an asshole.

General guidelines for building relationships with foreigners:

Ask open-ended questions: How do you like it here? What do you think about _____? Tell me about ___________?

Ask deeper questions, once you get to know us: Was there something that surprised you about life here? Do you have any funny stories? Was there anything someone did that was distinctive or made an impact on you? (Do bear in mind you may be asking about personal feelings and sensitive experiences in a country. Some of us have been harassed, mocked, or been in uncomfortable situations that have led us to form these opinions)

Ask regular questions that you would ask of anyone: Where do you work? How long did you go to school for? What is your family like? What do you like to do in your spare time? Which is better, the Beatles or Queen? No, you are absolutely right, pineapple does not belong on pizza.

Treat us like people, just like you would want to be treated. That’s all we are at the end of the day.

Seek to learn from us, and think about how we can all teach things to each other. That is why we are all put together in this crazy, beautiful mess of a world.

Thank you schön za to že viniste a mi TedTalk, mon amiguinho piú caro 🙂

How to pick your next book: a guest post by Kryptonite Knihovník

Reading books is the best thing that people can love, I think. Reading books is a use for paper that didn’t occur to me, since paper in books is hard to crumple into a ball, or tie to a string like a feather.

I will be honest, usually the most fun I can have with books is helping Mommy turn the page (she always gets cross and says I am destroying her book), sitting on them while she is reading (she gets cross at this too, but I am just using my butt to mark her place), or knocking them off the nightstand when the food dish isn’t full.

It is true though, when Mommy reads a book, she is still, and thus a great snuggle buddy. Since she read over a hundred books with me last year, I put together a list of ways that you can pick a good book:

1. Books with lots of pictures are great, because the pages are nice and shiny, and they glide under the paws as you turn the pages. Be warned though, you as a human will get really tired of the kitty trying to help turn pages, and the reading snuggle session will end pretty quickly. Try a thicker, longer book. And remember, when you finish a page, it is a great chance to pet a kitty face.

2. Don’t just pick a book based on its cover. The cover of a book can be deceiving. For instance, the book „Field Guide to Czech Songbirds“ with a lovely sparrow on the front contained no actual songbirds. Very disappointing.

3. Mommy says the best books are those which make you experience all the emotions while learning things about yourself and the world. But when you are reading an excellent book like this, be aware – it may make you cry, laugh, scream, or throw the book across the room. All activities which disturb a kitty reading companion. Very rude.

4. Books about cats are great, always. The market has a multitude of books about cats, fiction and nonfiction alike, that you will enjoy. My personal favorite is „The Lion in the Living Room,“ which tells the story of how cats and humans came to live together. It is fascinating, funny, and interesting – just like me!

5. If you have a choice to get a book with a ribbon bookmark, pick that one. Doesn’t matter which genre. Your kitty will thank you.

And there you have it – five tips for picking your next book, from the one and only Kitty Librarian in the Czech Republic. Remember humans, think of your kitty friends when you are picking out a book to read. Once you are a perfect 36.5 degree heated blanket, we will gladly enhance your reading experience with happy purring.

Kryptonite is the head animal librarian at the North Bohemia Research Library in Ústí nad Labem. Once per week he comes to supervise the work of library employees, do quality control checks on staff and patrons‘ petting skills, and make sure that all the most comfortable chairs are easily accessed. He cannot imagine a world where someone doesn’t think he is wonderful. When he is not working at the library, he enjoys playing with bits of paper, doing tricks, and having people tell him how perfect he is.

You can follow his literary adventures on Instagram at @alul.american.knihovna or @petrakpettingzoo

So when are you having kids?

As a thirty-year-old woman who does not have her own biological children, I get asked this a lot. I have become famous for my unorthodox responses to this question, which I (and most women my age) see as impolite and intrusive:

„Are you really asking me about my sex life?“

„I’m the one who has to carry and raise the kids, I don’t see how that should impact or interest you.“

„Well, after the egg is fertilized by the sperm, more or less 40 weeks of gestation go by, and then a baby is born, so I guess give or take 40 weeks from when a sperm fertilizes one of my eggs.“

„You know, I ask myself the same question. My husband and I have so much sex, it seems like a baby would have happened a long time ago.“

Yes. I really have answered that question in each of these ways. To quote a dear friend of mine, also a foreigner: „if it’s awkward for me, I’m going to make it awkward for you.“

I don’t think people really understand how intrusive and personal this question is. When you say „so when are you having kids?“ or my very favorite, „so are you trying to have kids?“ do you realize the answer may be one or more of the following:

„I am pregnant now, but don’t want to share the news yet.“

„My partner and I don’t agree on this issue and we don’t know how to resolve it.“

„I am pregnant now, but there is something wrong. I am going to lose the pregnancy and I have a lot of complicated emotions.“

„Five people have already asked me that question this week, and I am tired of answering it.“

„I don’t know if my partner and I are ready to be parents.“

„I have a lot of debt and property issues that are causing me enough stress, I don’t need a child to add to that.“

“We have been trying for a long time to have kids with no success, and that is such a hard and expensive process, it is discouraging to think about it, much less be forced to talk about it.”

„I had a horrible experience in my home and family as a child. I don’t want to make the same mistakes as my parents.“

„I have personal and professional goals I want to reach first.“

„We have a plan, but we don’t want to share it.“

„I have trauma from past relationships, and the thought of having a child is unfathomable to me.“

„My partner and I are having serious problems in our relationship, and I don’t want to have a child in the middle of that.“

„I have a genetic defect that I don’t want to pass on to another generation.“

„I physically cannot have children.“

„My job is awful and I don’t make enough money to support a family.“

„I don’t want to trap my partner with parenthood.“

„I have serious health problems that keep me from having children, and I don’t want to talk about them.“

„I am worried I won’t be a good mother.“

„I am worried my partner won’t be a good parent, or partner, once the baby is born.“

„The world is already full of abused and unloved children, I don’t need to contribute to society’s burden by bringing more children into the world.“

„The planet is already overloaded with people.“

„I am fulfilled and happy in my current state and I don’t want to threaten that.“

„The world is full of evil and destruction, who would want to bring a kid into that?“

„I have already lost a pregnancy, and I am still grieving. The thought of having another baby is just too much.“

„Why does no one ask men when they are having kids? Or guilt them, or try to convince them otherwise, when they say they don’t want kids?“

„I have so much else I could talk about, why do you want to discuss my reproductive life?“

I won’t tell you which of these reasons are, or have been, the case for me. Because I don’t have to. It is my business. If I trust you and we have a good relationship, I may open up to you and tell you more about myself at some point. But there are so many amazing things to talk about in our big, crazy, fascinating world, let’s just talk about those instead.

In closing: ask about something other than a woman’s reproductive life if you are genuinely interested in talking with her. And should you ask me about my domestic plans be prepared to hear a LOT about my private life.

Aston’s showing debut

I have no words.

 

That’s a lie. I have too many words.

But mostly, I have lots of feelings. How do you describe these feelings?

 

When a horse you have raised and trained yourself goes to his first horse show and places 5^th in his first class and 1^st in his second class, to applause from all the spectators.

 

 

When the In-Hand Trail class shows that you have improved in every area of your training, and your Freestyle performance to No Tengo Dinero makes the audience laugh when they hear the song’s title translated.

When you hug your horse in the middle of an arena that was all yours, and you truly forget all the tears, all the frustration and anger, all the stress, because you did something with your horse and he did so much better than you could have expected.

When you go camp at the showgrounds, and see the stains from the last time you used the tent – which was two years earlier when your horse was an infant and needed to eat every four hours.

When you are going through the familiar exhilarating phases of a horse show that you have missed so much – from braiding his mane to picking up your number to cleaning a stall to memorizing the course – only now you are doing it with your own horse.

 

When you hear your horse’s name and number called over the loudspeaker, and you have to shake your head to see if you are dreaming.

 

When your horse does everything you ask of him, every in-hand trail maneuver, every command, on the first try and with a perfect attitude, such that no one would guess that he was a stallion.

When you had such extreme doubts about how he would do, you just had to run the mantras “participation is perfection” and “we are doing this for experience” through your head and resign yourself to surviving… and your horse blew even your expectations out of the water.

When you’re holding your trophy and ribbons in your hands, thinking that while you have asked and gotten advice from over 20 different trainers and breeders, you have done all the work with the same hands that hold those prizes.

When you are overwhelmed with texts and congratulations from your friends from around the world who have been telling you all weekend that they are cheering for you and believe in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.

 

When you are having a quiet moment with your horse on the grass as a reward, and you remember the comments that have stung the most over the last two years:

 

She must not really have financial problems, if she can afford a horse.

 

Oh… he’s cute. His legs are bad though.

 

That horse looks awful… before you think about showing you should learn how to feed a horse.

 

Oh my gosh, you need to get a vet out. my horse is your horse’s age and look how much bigger, healthier, and fatter he looks.

 

Have you ever dewormed him before? Do you know anything about taking care of a young horse?

 

Well, he will be a nice horse to take on walks in the woods.

 

He still has so many unknowns in his future, and I have no idea where he will end up. He may still “only” be a trail horse (by the way, I would trust “only a trail horse” more than I would trust a banker with my family fortune). But if that’s the case, he’ll go to the woods with a first place ribbon on his bridle and the most proud and loving human mom on his back.

Some seismic shift

“Wow… you’re really mean.”

 

The months of crippling migraines didn’t make me finally decide to slam on the brakes.

 

The two falls from horseback, one causing traumatic injury, did not cause me to stop my breakneck pace.

 

The times I tried to stop and think when was the last time I did something for fun with a friend? Do I have any friends? and then quickly changed my train of thought didn’t make me stop in my tracks and say “something’s gotta give.”

 

It was that simple statement from my husband, the man who knows and understands me better than anyone else on earth, and who normally enjoys laughing at human idiocy as much as I do, that caught my attention.

 

I had relayed something that a coworker had said that was facepalm-worthy, and then confided it to Jonas. When I relayed the joke that I had wanted to make in return, Jonas hadn’t laughed, but was surprised that I was so harsh and cutting in my response to this poor young fellow.

 

The rest of my conversations and interactions throughout the day ran through my head, and I realized most of them were on par with this comment. Some of them were even more… well, I would have said intelligent and witty, but now I was doubting my self-evaluation of my humor.

If my adoring husband was calling me mean, that meant that somewhere, a drastic change had been undergone.

At some point, my “someone at this place has to be cheerful and funny, it may as well be me!” approach had been replaced with “let’s at least laugh about something here,” and joy had been slowly suffocated along the way.

 

The time had come to really stop, and look at what I was carrying with me wherever I went. Why was I judging every living person through such harsh lenses? Why was every little inconvenience such a cause for a string of profanity? When did every living, breathing person become a smiling mask to hide a crook’s visage? What had put these lenses over my eyes to see the world this way?

 

I stopped on the deserted road that I had been running, or slogging down. Barren to the left, barren to the right. Bleak gray clouds overhead, straight and barren road leading to god-knows-where ahead. I remembered the road behind, ten years of university studies, and master’s programs, and moving across the world, and all sorts of jobs. All bleak and barren behind me. Nothing to show for all my churning and running. No one chasing me, no one yelling after me. There was only one thing it could be. No escaping now.

 

Time to stop and turn, to face the demons sitting on my back.

Audeamus “Moose-Moose” Petrak

I have joined the ranks of moms who have adopted children that look nothing like them.

This is me.

 

This is me with my child’s birth mother, Aba. In the first picture, we won third place in a dressage show. In the second picture, she was a month away from her due date with my baby.

This is my child. His registered name is Audeamus. We call him Aston Martin.

 

I have a million pictures of him on my phone, and I show them to strangers and people whom I have just met.

I’m in a million Facebook groups about all aspects of caring for, educating, and raising him, and I was way more of an expert on raising him before I took the plunge into motherhood.

He is light years ahead of most of the other foals his age in terms of his intelligence and his manners.

He has perfect manners for the vet, because he has had more illnesses and injuries in a year and a half than many horses have in a decade.

His nicknames include “Money-Eater” and “Walking Vet Bill.”

I’m currently writing his story, and the story of how he’s changing me as a horse owner and a mother. I have no idea how this story ends, or how many chapters it will take up.

In Other Words, Part 1

To those of you who did not watch the election last night, is there room under your rock for me? And the majority of my country? Because while most of us are jealous of you, at this point we would give our voting arm for the chance to join you. There’s never been a time when more people wanted to leave the country. But I want to share something with you from my own experience, because I GTFO of America before it was cool, or trending on social media. In case you, my dear American friends, are now wanting to leave, I want to tell you what you can expect.

 

1. Everyone who knows you are American will ask you your opinion on any American event. Political campaigns, celebrity scandals, cultural icons, etc. You will feel like a bug under a microscope under the pressure of fairly representing everyone in the most diverse country in the world to someone who already has their opinions of you and your community formed. In other words, they will treat you like the one black/Latino/Asian/Muslim/Indian/etc. person at the party.
2. They will patronize you, assuming that just because you want to treat others with dignity and respect, that you are a weak and emotional person crippled by “political correctness.” In other words, they will treat you like an emotional woman.
3. They will turn judgmental eyes directly at you when people in your country do something unthinkable, like elect Donald Trump president. When you want to cry and scream because of what is going on in the world, you will feel instead like you are naked in a fish tank in a room full of people. In other words, they will treat you like Muslims and people of near- and middle-eastern descent are treated.
4. When they hear your accent and grammatical errors, they might switch to a higher volume and childish words, rather than simply repeating what they said, like you asked. It won’t matter how many languages you speak, where you have traveled, whether or not you got your master’s degree with an academic scholarship at the age of 22. In other words, they will treat you like immigrants are treated.
5. They won’t understand you. Your life, from your birth to the most recent breath you took, will be from a place that they do not, and cannot understand. That is not their fault, and they will be kind, and they will try to reach out to you, but you will never be fully understood by them because they do not walk around in your skin. You will feel isolated and alone, and unable to cast any blame because it is the fault of no one that you (and they!) were born in your/(their!) respective skin. In other words, you will be treated like a person from a racial, ethnic, or LGBTQ-minority is treated.

I can tell you, when I watched the results of the election on live TV, the one American woman in a room full of Czech men (and one Czech woman), and all the cameras turned to me, I fully felt the weight of minority status and differences of privilege for the first time in my life.

I learned to drive in one of the most treacherous, icy, and snowy winters on record in Washington state, and I learned to drive in a 200 Ford Ranger. The rear wheel drive and lightweight frame meant that that bad boy slid around on the roads like Jaromir Jagr – until we weighted down the bed over the rear axles with snow. We filled that bed with packed snow and firewood, and that let me drive on. From now on, I choose to take the weight of being an immigrant in Europe, and let it stabilize and drive me in my work. I’m not done! And that work will be further described in the next (bilingual) blog post.

Reflections on two months injured, featuring pictures of baby animals

Ding!

Circle, yes, we got the right lead.

Five-four-three-two-one-

Wow, that was a big jump!

Better hold on tight and hope this ends well.

Oh shoot….This is not going to end well.

Oh God, so much pain, can’t breathe, you’re asking me in Czech what hurts, all I can think is EVERYTHING.

The picture is hysterical, almost profile-picture worthy. I laughed when I saw it… through teeth gritted in pain. My hip joint, pelvis, ribs, spine, and all connected musculature were  crippling pain for a week solid. I sucked it up and went back to work 36 hours later, limping, resting when possible, trying to laugh it off, and ignore the pain that didn’t go away, telling myself it was fine and any day now it would go away. I even rode Aba again after two weeks, thinking I just had to build up my strength again and that’s why I was still sore. After all, pain is weakness leaving the body, right?

Regardless, the pain in my hip was getting sharper and sharper, and numbness was extending down my leg, while my whole lower back, hip bone and pelvis was painful to touch or walk on. I gradually could walk without limping, and the ambient pain went down, but the nerve pain got worse. So… Jonáš and I decided to start the medical merry-go-round.

I tried hard to stay positive, and work more on developing my lunging skills, trick-training, and bombproofing. I do believe this training was important for Aba. However, I had hoped to show her all summer, ride her four days a week, and enjoy the summer from her back, and instead I watched her and myself getting fatter, and our fitness wasting away.

I finally broke down over Skype to my mom about the situation. After 6 weeks, a friend who’s  a physiotherapist did a full evaluation of my hip mobility and pain. He said it could be a number of things, possibly bursitis, a hematoma, a stress fracture of my pelvis or hip, a herniated disc, or some other sort of nerve damage. I was devastated, and had been in constant pain for six weeks. My positive attitude ran out at this point. I was crushed by uncertainty, discouragement, and the desperate feeling of wasting my lease of my beautiful mare.

Jonáš came through again, showing that he is strong in the areas I am weak. He believed in me, and said he was grateful I wasn’t hurt worse. He encouraged me to not wallow, but pour my energy into doing what I needed to recover. He also encouraged me to focus on the things I can be grateful for. He shared with me that he is grateful to God for what this experience has taught us. Allow me to list these things, what I am grateful for:

1. Showing me that I need to develop patience.
2. Showing me that I am stubborn, and sometimes fighting through things is not the right solution.
3. Letting me spend more time with this adorable little one, who is not a horse, but who still needs me.
4. There are many other things I have been able to do to enjoy the summer, and God has provided work, free time, and allowed me to be creative.
5. God has given me the two most amazing boys in my life whom I love with all my heart. 
6. I resurrected my passion for visual art through photography, and gotten lots of chances to develop that this summer.
7. Even though Aba is away at the stallion’s until further notice (her owners want to get a baby from her next year), I have these most adorable little subjects to love on and photograph in the meantime:
   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

   

    

8. I have a husband whom I absolutely adore.
9. I have a big crazy family, friends whom I treasure, and 2016 will see me in the U.S. two times.
10. In short, I have the choice to appreciate the gifts in my life. And how great is the number of those gifts! Ephesians 3:20-21