On HOW we do our jobs

I think when you work in the medical or health related field, you are made to be more mindful of your direct impact on patients. People usually are not in front of you when they are a picture of health or when their children are developing typically (in my case). I think we are mindful (though some aren’t) of our actions and how we present information to our clients or patients.

I know I’ve blogged on something similar before stating that no job is mundane and your job is your mission field. You can read that by clicking here. It’s good to remember that every job has an impact, and every job affects another or helps another [person in the forefront or direct care] do his or hers.

I was reminded recently of the fact that HOW you do your job is just as important as you doing your job. We are all connected and we all can have a positive impact on another. Maybe your mission today is simply that smile you give the person on the elevator that needs a small bit of encouragement as you take the elevator to your floor? Maybe you make eye contact with the person you pass on the sidewalk on the way to work who feels that no one sees her? Maybe buy the person behind you at Starbucks their coffee?

I was the recipient of simple “work place kindness” a few weeks ago. After much dreaming and thinking, I decided to open a side business to do speech therapy. Little did I know how confusing the process could be. I realized I needed a business license and I’m new to St. Louis so all the rules here are unknown and don’t make much sense yet. Mind you, I'm still in the learning phase in navigating my new city so my sanity lies in a delicate balance on a daily basis. any slight tip can cause mental catastrophes of various proportions. In order to not be caught off guard, I emailed back and forth with the city licensure office to find out exactly what needed to be done in order to get a business license. They electronically sent the required documents. Sweet, I printed and signed them and got all the necessary information. I ran into the city hall building to the office. This would only take a second because I was so prepared, right?

I through the door behind two other women who were there for other business (praying their business wouldn't take long as mine would just be a sec). One of them sat at the window/desk next to me while the other waited in the chairs that lined the wall. My clerk handed my papers back to me immediately after I handed them in and asked where my occupancy permit was. My what? I didn’t have a document for that. I said, “Oh, that, I probably don’t need it as I’ll be in homes working.” Nope, that didn’t fly. She then proceeds to tell me that I have a couple options: I could go the zoning committee office today in the off chance I can be seen or make an appointment that could take 4-6 weeks. WHAT?! It was like she was speaking another language. My brain could not compute - I think it was scared of that possible catastrophe. She walked away and the woman next to me leaned over to ask what my business was for. I hurriedly told her all the while thinking she was nosey. When the clerk walked back up to find me still wide eyed and dumbfounded, she started to repeat herself when the lady next to me said “I’ll help her.” I was more confused. The clerk gave her the side-eye and told me my options again and added “or you can go with Mrs. Dorothy.” I turned to look at the stranger behind me that had walked in with "Mrs. Dorothy" because I had no one else to turn to!! She just said, “Go with Mrs. Dorothy. Trust me.”

WHO IS THIS MAGICAL MRS. DOROTHY??!!

I sat by the door to wait for this mysterious woman to finish her business and went with her. What if this is a joke and she zip-ties me and locks me underneath city hall? We go up to the top floor and into this corner office: Business Assistance. She tells me not to do anything else without her and that she will go with me to any other offices. She tells me that she is going to walk me through every step of the way. I start to wonder how much this is going to cost. I sat at her desk looking around for a fee schedule. I then see several bible verses or messages of encouragement on her wall. Ah, I get it. I just breathe and relax in my chair. I felt cradled.  i exhaled for the first time since entering the building. Walking into the office at the exact moment as Mrs. Dorothy was no accident for me that day.

This service was free yet no one told me. NONE of the women in the office bothered to tell me there are offices like this to assist. Where is your sisterhood, people? I might have left that day defeated and very much delayed in my endeavor, but I didn’t. Mrs. Dorothy spoke up. Those three words, “I’ll help her” made all the difference during a week that felt overwhelming and challenging. It felt like she claimed me and made a choice to cover me in kindness. This advocacy took so little but had such an impact. I wonder if the disciples gave Jesus that same side-eye and raised eyebrow look when he spoke up for the disenfranchised, the weary, and margin-dwellers and said “I’ll help her.”  

I witnessed another person in the same position do the same job on another day with another person when I returned for my license. It was not the same -- same job but much different experience. He “did his job” but with many sighs, hurried questions, and exasperated tones. When I came back on this second visit, Mrs. Dorothy did most of the legwork running payments and applications around city hall while I waited at her desk. She waited with me until we got all the clearances and then walked me down to the licensure office to get my license. I loved watching Mrs. Dorothy’s interactions with others. She smiled, she was the first to speak and exchange niceties. There was a genuine quality to every single thing she did.  I walked out that day with my license in hand and yet another experience of walking with angels on earth.

Doing our jobs is important but how we do that job is equally as important. You never know your far reaching impact on another.

If someone makes an impact, encourage that person by sending a thank you card or telling him or her how much you appreciate the kindness. I sent Mrs. Dorothy a thank you note. I want her to know how much she meant to me and that I believe she walked in the door that day at the exact time that God meant for her to. She was my gift that day.

"So no matter what your task is, work hard. 
Always do your best as the Lord's servant, not as man's." 

Colossians 3: 23 (the Voice)

With love from a fully licensed business woman,

Danielle

A trip down memory lane!

I just drove 2 hours from St. Louis to Carbondale, Illinios for the night. I’m attending a conference tomorrow so I opted to spend the night in a hotel the night before (SQUEAL!).

After 45 minutes or so on the freeway, waze took me on another highway. I assumed I would link up with another major road since I was still more than an hour from my destination. But, waze did not. It took me the distance but it took me faaaaaar beyond the miles, many miles down Memory Lane to Lucedale. Each small town I passed through brought a smile to my face. It was just me for most of the miles on the back roads and highway. Each small town looked like and reminded me of Lucedale. 

So many flashes of images came to mind, memories jostled, laughter heard, conversations rehashed….

Take a trip down memory lane with me. Does it spark any memories for you?

I’m starting in elementary school. I went to Lucedale Elementary and we had this old gym by the first grade hall. It was always rumored to be haunted. We rarely went in there but when we did it had a damp musty feel. With our skinny little bird legs carrying us, we lined up and walked through the entry way into the gym area. As we walked, we could see this painted Rebel (mascot) and rumor was his eyes moved to watch you. There were so many stories of what happened underneath the gym as if that wasn't enough. Under the stairs you could see fencing, and one could peek in and see grass and just plain old ground. How did so many of us see more? Bodies, skeletons, people reaching for help……it still gives me the willies thinking about that place.

I remember fun trends like jelly shoes and charm necklaces. Oh how I loved to trade charms. I remember some people who had so many charms, I coveted them all. I’m looking at you Jennifer O’Neal. I remember wanting a Glo-worm but never getting one (no worries, I wasn’t damaged). I remember my first Cabbage Patch Doll, Collette Alana. She had red hair. There was a whole round display at Sears one day, and I finally got to pick one out. I mean, it came with a BIRTH CERTIFICATE! I collected all of the California Raisins at Hardee’s.

I remember touching a Black girl’s hair for the first and only time. I had stared at it every single day of first grade. I was behind her in line. I just couldn’t take it anymore. It was like I was out of my body. I asked her, “C, can I touch your hair?” to which she replied yes. Like the speed of light, my hand shot up and touched her beautiful poof and went back down. I doubt anyone even SAW it, I was so fast. I giggle about that every time I touch Luba’s hair.

I remember playing all day outside – most of which was with Blake, my neighbor. We were gone from morning til night. You would see two kids on bike riding down the highway with camo vests (with most likely a squirrel tail whipping in the wind and pellet guns or fishing rods in tow). We hunted, fished, raised cattle, rode bikes, built things, nursed baby animals we found and played. We were inseparable until middle school when you can’t just flit around with your male neighbor.

Middle school, how awkward. I remember my trampoline in the back yard. How many “routines” did we actually make and up and execute? I distinctly remember my routine to “Push It” by Salt n Pepa and it ended with a perfect dismount from the trampoline. I just brought my boom box outside, plugged it in to the outside plug, and played the best songs that I had RECORDED FROM THE RADIO ON TAPE. Remember that? Push record when the song starts.

Mixed tapes…another good memory. Or cassette singles? I remember buying “Superwoman” by Karyn White and taking it to Kristie Kelley’s party so it would be a slow dance option. She did always have the best parties. Everyone wanted to go to Kristie’s parties and what I loved was how inclusive her family was. Her parents were “those parents” who just got us back in those awkward years. They created a space where gangly pimply adolescents could just be. Kristie even had a room that was all purple. Of course, Mrs. Frances totally understood all things girl. 

We didn't have MTV (or good cable or any internet) in those days. My brother recorded Friday night videos for me on VHS because it came on after I went to bed. BAM, Saturday morning meant open eyes, make a pop-tart and tune in to see what the top 10 videos were. I wore out a few tapes rewinding and repeating "Hush Hush" by Paula Abdul and "If I Close My Eyes Forever" By Ozzy and Lita Ford. 

  

I also remember the death of a friend’s little brother during our middle school years. We all learned that death does not wait for us to be ready or “old enough.” You just can’t make sense of a child’s death.  

I remembered introducing myself as if my dad was famous – “Hi, I’m Danielle. My parents are Cary and Peggy Jones.” In those days, we all knew one another by family name. Before I could hang out with a new friend or go on a date, my parents would ask “Who do they belong to?” When I started working in the school district there in George County, I found myself doing the same thing to kids, “Who is your mom?” It just made it all make more sense. Reputation carried you far. You could overcome a bad one but it took work.

My mom always took me to Mobile after Sunday church. I loved this. We went to Red Lobster and then the mall. Occasionally I got to bring a friend. Mom would give me $20 and I’d be on my way for hours. My friend of that day and I would always buy a matching purse at one of those accessories stores at the mall. Rebekah Merck, I still remember red ones we bought at the store next to Woolworth's at Bel Air Mall. On Monday, we were hot stuff. That purse was always full of jolly ranchers too. Jolly ranchers brought all the boys to the yard at the time. We also made sure that purse had a plastic photo album in it with all the newest pictures that we had DEVELOPED. It was common to look at others’ “picture albums” so it changed with the newest pictures or who you were made at (those came out of the book until you were friends again). Purse musts included photo albums, jolly ranchers, comb/brush, and lotion. 

I remember church as I passed houses. I imagined how many of them were relaxing through naps before they would soon head off to Sunday night church. Remember that? At First Baptist, we had choir practice, training union at 6, and then church at 7. I couldn’t wait to get old enough to attend a “lock in” or one of the occasional services where all youth came from other Baptist churches to meet at one after the 7pm service. I can’t even remember what that was called, but I loved it.

Because our town was so small, thankfully high end purses were never a thing. You were “in” if you had a Liz Claiborne purse. Bonus points if you had a bottle of Liz Claiborne perfume, which came in a triangle spray bottle. Dooney & Bourke hit the market (for “other people”) and we all flocked to the store that opened carrying knock offs.

How many times must we have gone to see Reba McEntire or George Strait? On that note, how many pairs of colored Wranglers and Roper boots did we have for donning for such occasions?

As I reminisced up the timeline in my mind, I went to high school. Before we even made it through day 1 of 9^th grade, everyone knew Joe Dunnam was dreamy. All of the K-8 schools finally merged and we had FRESH MEAT! New friends! But how scary! I still remember our eclectic groups that joined for AP English with Mrs. Howell. I thought of her the other day and wondered about her. I remember her as I organize a book club. I love books and I think I fell in love with book discussions in that class where personalities collided and social barriers dissolved.

I remember Interact Club with our sponsor, Mrs. Luce. I volunteered to go to Rotary Club any Monday that didn’t have spots filled. I think Jesus himself made that hamburger steak and gravy that was served most Mondays. We got to leave school to attend the Rotary meeting with all the business men, held at the Coffee Pot on Mondays. The Coffee Pot had a scratching post outside that was our claim to fame. Sadly, the scratching post is there but the Coffee Pot is now a Chinese restaurant. 

Who remembers Katmandu’s? Katmandu’s was a dance place for 18 and over that opened on Airport Boulevard in Mobile. It was like the mecca for coolness as we had nothing like that before. We had only “dances” after Friday night football games so this was grand although it closed shortly after. Our friend Shane used to drive Zan and me. Mark Havard was there, always in the forefront, and that boy could dance. (Mark, I hope you read this). I also remembered the trend of boys wearing pacifiers on a necklace. (Mark, I’ll never tell if you had one…) what must our high school teachers have thought?

We talked on the phone after school and on weekends on a phone that was connected to the wall. If you got in trouble, your parents unplugged it from your room and hung on to that bad boy til things blew over. We wrote letters and exchanged them during breaks and recesses. Cell phones came out at the end of high school for us. We had an antenna that connected to the outside of the car and a “bag phone” that fit on the console area. It was as big as a house phone. It was magic. I could only use mine in case of emergency because there were no value or family plans.

We had typing class which meant no computers as we know it today. We had typewriters. Yearly school supply lists included corrective tape and White Out. I loved typing, and I was good at it. You put a book on a stand that had preprinted paragraphs and you went to town on that keyboard so see how you could beat the day before’s WPM (words per minute, young ones). I typed Coach Sellers’ basketball certificates for him.We had computer class, but it was COMPUTER CLASS where you learned how to do a simple program. The screens were black with green characters. 

These are just a few that came to mind so vividly as I drove. As I always say, I would never trade growing up in a small town for anything else.  I love that a handful of us still make time to get together when I go home at Christmas. I think as we laugh and catch up each time, we still see each other at any of those stages in the early years. I remember Natasha’s super straight here that smelled divine. Seriously, everyone asked her if they could smell her hair. I remember Alisha’s upbeat personality and the way her lips pursed as she concentrated and wrote her school work. I remember Jennifer’s devilish smile and bows in her hair. And at any age, she sang all the time. Love you girls!

Lucedale people, what others can you think of? 

Happy reminiscing,

Danielle

Thoughts on growing and learning (as a White person)

There’s so much going on the world right now, isn’t there? Most times, I don’t even know where to start to begin to process it. I often shoot my friend Jody an email and that helps because I know she wonders too and I know that we can have an uncomfortable conversation [Thanks Jody!]. I'm learning so much about what stems from misunderstanding and imposing our thoughts, cultures, and religions on others. 

I grew up in a small rural town in South Mississippi. I would not trade this for anything. I loved it. It was so valuable in forming my solid foundation. It was simple, yet complicated I would later learn, but rich.

Over the past 10 years, I’ve had Asian and Latina friends ask me several times how I became to be who I am and “not like many white people.” [I'm not offended by their generalization because I know it comes from experiences they have had, I'm not here to argue it or reduce it] Although I have a lot to learn, I’m proud of who I have become and those questions at least let me know I’m on the right track and to “keep on keeping on.” I hope you can say that too? I look back and who I am today is a smattering of experiences and discomfort fueled by curiosity and a yearning to be connected in the world.

I moved to California in 2001. I had never been so far away from home. The farthest I had gone was Mobile, a whopping 45 minutes away. I initially moved to Hollywood (later moving to Orange County). It was exhilarating and overwhelming to my senses. I loved it. I was a fish out of water but soon found my new fish bowl. Or maybe I was more of a goldfish in the Pacific Ocean? I was soon surrounded by all kinds of “fish” and it unlocked this curiosity in me that had never before been exposed. I fell in love with the diversity, but I was also shaken by it. All of my world views and perspectives were suddenly challenged – both internally and externally. All of the absolutes (and many “those peoples”) were confronted.

I made a ton of mistakes as I learned to access my new world. I had to figure out how to satisfy this desire to learn more about people without offending them in the same breath. I wanted to know everything about them. I wanted to know their stories. A comfort in the discomfort began to develop as each story chipped away at ideals that I had held about things and people and countries and systems and EVERYTHING. I appreciated those who did not get offended as I misspoke and misasked (“What are you?” or "Which Asian are you?"– makes you cringe right, those who are so PC? I know, me too). I made all the typical “white people mistakes” as they call it out of a genuine interest to know others.

Side note: I think we should spend less time guffawing at the way people ask questions sometimes and focus on the reason they are asking – when they WANT to know you…answer and politely teach the better way of asking. Race discussions can only get better when we can educate one another and not be scared to ask a question because it may be the wrong way to ask. I’m thankful for patient friends. I didn’t and never will have that perspective of other races and cultures. We “white people” would certainly ask in the most “politically correct way of the moment” if we knew how.

My view of immigrants changed as I sat at the feet of a friend and listened to her stories of what she fled from in her native country and how hard she has worked since landing here to become a citizen get an education and give back to this country. I served in Boise Idaho with Create Common Good who assists refugees who are placed in the United States. I saw how hard they worked to acclimate quickly, within a ridiculous time frame, to learn skills and the language in order to secure a minimum wage job (mind you, many who were “comfortable” in their own countries before war).

I learned a lot through my own immigration story with Luba. I learned what it is like on the “other side” with legal immigration. It’s difficult even when you do everything correctly, and even as the “White middle class American.”

I saw the hardship as I recycled weekly – me saving for adoption and others recycling to make ends meet, to put food on their families’ tables. Many of them were far beyond their “working years.” I made a point to look around and see people. 

I found a church where I was the minority. It was primarily Asian American - Korean and Chinese with a spackling of other nationalities. I stuck out there (there were less than 10 white people I think when I started, and that's out of hundreds) but loved it. I was nurtured there and grew so much. I was gently led for over 10 years by Asian pastors, friends and prayer warriors.

My sister’s husband is Vietnamese. I’ve learned so much from him and his family – his family who took me in when they married as if I were their own. What a gift to hear immigration stories first hand – leaving Vietnam, settling, growing, being what you are today. Again, I had only known Vietnam through minimal stories of the war. We as a country don’t really talk about Vietnam, still.

I took a trip to South Africa, with Africa being a continent I never wanted to visit. It wrongly represented a personal painful history. The people and landscape of that country has taught me the most about myself, about God, about humanity, sacrifice and love. I still dream of my trips. I can see it vividly. I can smell it. It is where I met my husband and where my new family lives.

Through providing therapy services, I have been in many homes of many cultures, but one of my favorite ones was a family of Islamic faith. In public, I first noticed the differences. At home, I couldn’t tell where I ended and they began. The mother was free to walk around dressed just as I was. Her husband was one of the kindest, and most hilarious, men I have ever known. Neither were radical, but like me, they clung to their faith to navigate and do right in this world. They were equally distraught of over radical faith and acts of terror. I remember them when I watch the news or read comments by Americans who disregard another religion because of a minority of radicals. What if people judged me by those Westboro Church beings?

I'm partial to everyone having equal human rights whether I agree or disagree with their decisions. The reason that drives it home? Not too many years ago, my marriage would have been illegal in the United States. I cannot even imagine. It makes no sense. We have the gift of hindsight to see these things. I never want to look back with that same gift and realize I was part of something that violated another's rights because I held so tightly to my own as if they would have changed. 

I began to think about the lives of young African American boys as I felt called to one day adopt a young black male. I had never been “against” anything in particular or argued the plight but I had simply never thought of it. It never affected me directly, or so I thought. That is, until it became personal. I began to learn of the safety talks men have with their sons and the fear that haunts mothers (both adoptive White and African American mothers) when their young Black sons are out at night. People don’t just make this up. To my white friends with all white families, it is real. The media is the media and that’s a blog for another day, but the line of truth that there is an issue today runs through the story somewhere. I knew it was real when Luba came and we lived in Huntington Beach, a city with a sordid past with race. He wanted to walk to CVS a block away to pick up a few things at night. Without understanding fully, I had a visceral response to him walking out the door. I couldn’t reconcile it. I worried the entire time he was gone. That made it more real. If I had this feeling, what is it like for those who live this every day? The African American mom who sends her young teen out into the streets hoping that there are no assumptions or miscommunications that night if he gets pulled over. I learned that i can't wait until issues directly affect me - it'll be too late. 

As I’ve met so many with accents and dialects unlike my own, I’ve learned to listen to the message. Focus on WHAT they are saying and not HOW they say it. Double negatives? No problem. Dropped off that final –s to mark a plural? No worries. It’s most important that we talk and convey the message and listen.

Every day in my marriage presents a learning experience. I think marriage is a hard hard hard road when you are very similar. Throw in two personalities, experiences, cultures, countries of origins, and you can easily make quite a cocktail!

I want to continue to learn. How do you learn? How do you challenge yourself?

For me, I have watched a ton of TED talks in addition to asking others their stories. It’s the easiest thing to do to listen to another person tell his or her story. I try to choose one by people with the focus on storytelling or race. I also read my Bible. Loving others and loving your neighbor (which doesn’t mean the ones you like or are like you) are mandated in that good leather bound book. Jesus loved, without exclusions or clauses. His message was simple and clear. 

I love this quote by Stephen R. Covey:

Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.

In my words, I would add: with the intent to reply, to defend, to argue, to correct.

Maybe try some of my favorites and listen to the TED talk or podcast with the intent of listening. Do not say anything. Do not argue or let those thoughts enter in. just listen. Breathe and listen.

Try some of my favorites - I promise you will reap some wisdom or be enlightened if you listen: [email me if you listen to any - would love to know your thoughts!]

TED talks:

Zak Ebrahim, I Am the Son of a Terrorist

Chimamanda Ngozi, Adichie, The Danger of a Single Story

Monica Lewinsky, The Price of Shame

Jamla Lyiscott, 3 Ways to Speak English

Mellody Hobson, Color Blind or Color Brave

Podcast:

On Being with Krista Tipett, John A. Powell: Opening theQuestion of Race to the Question of Belonging

*transcript available if you’d rather….

My favorite line in all of this is: “Whiteness is like the invisible presence of the narrator in a story told from the third person point of view.”

 Happy learning!

With love,

Danielle