Calling the "War on Christmas" what it is: A White Christian Crusade

I used to ignore my Republican friends' insistence there was a "War on Christmas." They claim the words "Merry Christmas" cover all religious celebrations during this time of year. Amplified by FOX news, one might think this war was of huge significance. To me, it was silly. Who cared if the clerk at Target said Merry Christmas instead of Happy Holidays, which would be more inclusive? Now, given our President's attacks on black and brown people, I can no longer dismiss it.

I don't know how it ever became an issue. When I was a teenager in the late 1970s, my mother would only allow me to purchase cards for my friends which said Season's Greetings. I remember a particular box of cards that showed pine trees in the snow with a sled. Had it shown a decorated Christmas tree, my mother would have disapproved.

Now the words "Merry Christmas" are ideological. They are used to assert white Christian dominance. A person could mean this in a stereotypical way, the way most people picture a white Santa Claus. On the other hand, words of domination have been employed to promote discrimination and outright racism.

Christians asserted their dominance in the world through the crusades. So the next time a Republican friend says, "Merry Christmas" to me, I will answer with "Merry Crusades." It sounds petty. But, then again, so does the idea of Flush-gate.

Let Me Speak - Paul

Hi everyone. I am going on a long internal journey & won’t be active on social media indefinitely. Not that I have been very active recently. But I won’t be on at all for awhile. I was going to cancel my account, but didn’t want to alarm anyone. Figured this simple post will suffice for now. Thanks for all the support these last couple of years. Much appreciated. I know i didn’t post or interact as much as I used to. Sorry about that. But I hope some of my posts helped you tho. I did try to be positive. Even about sad topics. I will be back. I just don’t know when. Until then sending out good vibes & a big hug to all those who need it. You are loved. Remember to always be kind to yourself & others. Love is the answer. Namaste.

Publications

Buffalo News:

Physical Health
Trump's Disease

Refugees
Harmful myths trail those seeking a better life here


Mental Health, Caregivers:

Buffalo Healthy Living
Caring for a Child with a Serious Illness

Buffalo Healthy Living
It's Always the Same Story: My search as a person with bipolar illness to find a better ending


Adoption:

Buffalo Healthy Living
Love Doesn't Come in a Color

Adoption STAR Newsletter
Post-adoption Depression





















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It’s Always the Same Story: My search as a person with bipolar illness to find a better ending

Published in Buffalo Healthy Living

It was 1998. I pulled back the top sheet and pink bed cover. As I sat up, I saw a window. I had no idea where I was. Had I attempted suicide? I looked at my wrists. There were no bandages. I rolled over and saw the stash of quarters on my night table. I was in a mental hospital. But why was the cover pink? All the other times the blankets had been white.

The first thing I did was try to get out of there. As I walked down the hall, I saw the nurses’ station. Across from it was an elevator. I pushed the down button. I was wearing my hospital gown. Three nurses appeared. Two held me as the third pressed an injection needle into my thigh. It worked quickly. I remembered the quarters and walked back to get them. When I called my husband, he patiently explained I was receiving ECT treatments which can cause short-term memory loss. I remember counting out loud until succumbing to the anesthetic which makes shocks are painless. My loss of short-term memory had one benefit: I didn’t remember my entire depression.

Upon returning home and unpacking, I saw a blue wraparound skirt with small flowers and a peach suit jacket to match. I walked into the living room where my husband was. “My mother was here,” I declared. I would have only purchased that suit to make my mother happy. I hated blue. The jacket wasn’t tailored enough. He told me my parents had driven from Long Island to Buffalo. I didn’t blame them for wanting to be there, but knew they hadn’t helped. I also realized my mind missed things because of the ECT treatments. Princess Diana had died. I had watched the movie Titanic. I haven’t watched it again, fearing it will spark the memories of that depression. I don’t want to get PTSD on top of bipolar disorder. Some of this is funny. But, mostly it’s the same story.

Now in 2019, I want to advocate against the stigma of mental illness. I remember reading an article about a bipolar woman’s experience. It was eerily similar to mine and made me feel nauseous. Calming down, I realized bipolar illness is a diagnosis like any other. People who have it display the same symptoms. Realizing I was determined to become healthy, and healthier than the woman in the article, I began my quest for a better ending. I am finding it as I begin to tell own my story.

I have been married for 29 years, have two great kids, and two advanced degrees. I realize now that woman’s story is not my story, and, with effective medication and therapy, it doesn’t have to be anyone else’s.

Harmful myths trail those seeking a better life here

As published in the Buffalo News

Immigration is a hot topic now. Not only is it important to understand the various policies, knowing someone’s story is a window into the myths being perpetrated. Through teaching a class to prepare green card holders to pass their U.S. citizenship test, I understand the struggles of immigrants.

Immigration is not solely about illegal immigrants crossing our southern border. The first thing to understand is that many are crossing our borders legally. For example, some are asylum-seekers. They can claim asylum status at a border checkpoint or even when they are in the country undocumented. This is in accordance with United States law and U.N. policies.

Once here, asylum-seekers have due process and equal protection rights under our Constitution. They are entitled to an asylum hearing. Generally, political refugees – those facing persecution in their home countries – are allowed to stay. Economic refugees – those in this country simply to earn more money – are generally deported.

One problem is how long the hearing process takes. Alternatives to detention, such as ankle bracelets, were common during the Obama administration. This ensured that asylum-seekers showed up for their hearing dates and were more than 90% effective. By prosecuting them for the offense of entering illegally and immediately detaining them, the Trump administration has caused the crisis at the border. Families are separated because children cannot be detained as long as adults and facilities are overcrowded.

The immigrants I teach have been pre-cleared in their home country before coming here. They are considered refugees, not asylum-seekers, and can obtain a green card. Still, there is more to their immigration stories. Often coming from war-torn nations in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East, they may be in refugee camps for years before being allowed to come here. The camps themselves can come under fire.

It is a myth that Muslim immigrants are terrorists. Most come as a family unit. Another myth is they overuse social services. While they can receive money to come here, their ability to receive government resources is restricted over time.

Imagine coming here from an African nation speaking only Swahili. Imagine having to learn a new alphabet after knowing only Arabic, which has different characters from English and is read right to left. Imagine seeing a supermarket for the first time and having to learn how to shop.

I am fortunate to teach an immigrant community here in Buffalo. I’ve also created a website, www.JanesPlace.org, where you can learn more about stigma against refugees, religious groups and the disabled.

Helaine Sanders teaches refugees to pass their U.S. citizenship test. She co-chairs the Town of Amherst Committee in Disabilities.

Self-Respect

My young womanhood began the day I read Joan Didion’s short essay, “On Self-Respect.” The symbolism of the green light flashed brighter in those early years.

I was at Cornell on a scholarship from my father’s union. It remains the achievement he is most proud of, even now, more than three decades later. That’s how I attained his respect.

It was a decision that took mere seconds to make. His union had sponsored a college fair and he told me to go over to the Cornell table. When asked by the recruiter my intended major, I said history. He was there to promote Cornell’s School of Industrial and Labor Relations, a school partly subsidized by New York State. When he told me I could take over thirty credits of history in the private College of Arts and Sciences at no additional cost, I decided to apply. I was accepted on that scholarship. It was the pinnacle of my academic achievement in father’s eyes, although I later attained a Master’s in Social Work and a Juris Doctor degree.

The question presented by Joan Didion, however, was whether I attained my own self-respect with that achievement. She lost the notion that the light would always turn green for her when she failed to make Phi Beta Kappa. She acknowledges the triviality of that: she didn’t have the grades. My green light stayed lit until I was twenty-six, the time I expected to have a baby by and didn’t. After that, nothing came according to a pre-determined timeline. Although I wouldn’t be diagnosed with bipolar disorder until I was twenty-nine, my unraveling began in earnest at twenty-six. But, to answer Joan Didion’s question, I did earn my self-respect at Cornell. The rest of my life has been an attempt to keep it.

I did, eventually, become a mother. And, I was able, during the important times, to keep from unraveling.

I remember the first time I couldn’t panic in front of my children, then young boys. We were on an airplane, having planned a Florida vacation. The pilot announced that smoke in the cockpit would necessitate an emergency landing elsewhere. All was normal, I assured my children, as the plane bounced and its lights flickered.

It is because of my bipolar diagnosis that I can successfully manage the difficult times. Coping strategies I learned earlier immediately come back. Having previously unraveled, I have a cure for the unpredictable. I can maintain my self-respect.

—

Helaine Sanders, LMSW, JD still finds the coping skill of journaling useful during difficult times. She administers this website, JanesPlace.org, where other articles about mental health may be found.

Knowing Your Limits

The beginning of my bipolar illness was a nightmare, which included a suicide attempt. I willed myself back to life during the charcoal treatment, since the attempt had nothing to do with a desire for death. It was a message to my husband. New York City is a harsh place to begin a career. I had a public sector job which allowed for a normal schedule. He worked for top law firms in the private sector. He was never home and I had no idea how to manage my unraveling. With the aid of medication and therapy, we managed to put together enough of the pieces to allow us to move to Buffalo, my husband’s home town.

Prolonged recovery didn’t begin for another decade, when the drug that would ultimately save me came on the market and prompted my upward climb. I had gotten to the point of not needing to think about my disease … or so I thought.

Feeling better led to a desire to work more. I always had a desire for public service and got involved in my children’s school and with the local Democratic Party. Then, in the Hell of Trump, I wanted to run for office, specifically County legislature. I had an excellent academic background and worked in jobs with tremendous responsibilities. Mental illness did not hold me back either: I had many good years behind me. I made a valiant effort, but in the end, I was too green to be on the ticket. After the fact, I got a lot of, “You wouldn’t have been able to do this, both the campaigning and paid work.” I started to doubt myself, not only in politics, but in any role, including parenting.

I withdrew my name in February. My son had an MRI, detecting a tumor, in March. It was easy to tie my depression to my son’s diagnosis, even if it had started before then. That’s how I made it about me, telling everyone how I couldn’t cope with the stress and my illness. But, it was never about me. Also, my depression ended, even though there was continued bad news for my son.

My husband and I took a trip to Italy in the beginning of August for our 30^th Anniversary. It caused me to understand my limitations in a positive way. I couldn’t keep up with his pace. One time, I needed a spa day. Other times he went out in the early morning and I joined him later.

There were limitations in my parenting. My husband took care of the children’s morning routine because he had to leave the house for work. I was with them for the afternoons and evenings, especially when they were younger. Although it would become harder to cook for both together once my sons had different schedules, there was a year when we all cooked together and bonded that way.

I see now I did the best I could. I volunteer for different organizations, but can not handle the rigorous schedule of paid employment. I am here for my children. When they were younger, I enjoyed giving them play dates after school. Most importantly, right now, I can ask friends for help, something I learned because of my own struggles with bipolar disorder.