On Parents
“You should talk to Dad. He’s worried. He’s facing his own mortality.”
This is what my oldest sister sent to me a couple of weeks ago when we were catching up. My father is a quiet man. I can be mouthy. We don’t talk much. Growing up, I was frustrated with his obsession with AM talk radio.
What I said to him, honestly, was, “Hey, Dad. Just letting you know I’m okay. I’m doing what I can to stand up for my neighbors and want to say that you are a major part of why I know what is fair in this world and what is not. I love you for all that you’ve shown and taught me, and thank you for all you’ve done to shape me. Take care of yourself.”
My values were molded by a bleeding-heart mother, a country music-loving, small business-owning father, and a few rebellious older siblings. I was raised on folk music, punk rock, and being told, “That is not right. That’s not what we are,” when my parents saw someone do something wrong.
My father shook his head when I grew my hair long and dyed it black. When I got a little older and protested the WTO in Seattle and the implementation of the Patriot Act, he didn’t exactly agree with me, but said I reminded him of a distant great uncle, abandoned by the family, who was a Quaker pacifist and couldn’t support WWII. It was one of those moments where we had a quiet understanding and I felt heard.
I don’t think about how I was raised that often. I’m never going to be a parent; I know it’s not something I can do. I’m often uncomfortable around children. But these days, I can’t see kids without crying. I’m not just talking about Liam. We all cried about Liam. I’m talking about the parents out there being impossibly brave trying to raise kids in incredibly difficult times.
After a march, I met up with the woman I’m seeing to get something to eat. We went to a restaurant, waited for them to unlock the door (this was during Operation Metro Surge, so some businesses keep the doors locked to protect workers), and were seated at a table next to a family with a small child in a high chair. The parents kept a stiff upper lip. They made the kid feel safe. My childless heart cried in my sandwich. The bravery of people with kids astounds me. Inspired, I figured I could be a little more brave and be around chaotic kids more than usual.
Later, an opportunity came up to help with a children’s march, and I signed up. Little kids made their own signs, we gave them full access to megaphones, they came up with their own chants. Parents made them feel heard and safe and able to have agency over their feelings and their voices. Another time, a singing moms group wanted help and I signed up. Parents circled a playground and sang. A little kid showed me his very cool stick. I often don’t feel like I have the energy to order delivery tacos, and these parents are resisting while raising children and organizing actions their kids can be a part of.
One of my friends is a single mother of three. She often asks if I know about kid-friendly protests where she can bring her very concerned children. She does some mutual aid, but is too scared to be an observer because there are so many people dependent on her. She worries she does not do enough. All I could tell her was, “Hugging your kids and teaching them right from wrong is more than enough.”
Although I will never raise kids, this moment has reminded me of the way my family raised me. It wasn’t perfect, yet the worldview still sticks with me all these decades later.
These parents instilling values in their kids are doing so much work, especially for the future. If we come through this time alive, our future will depend on what these parents are teaching their children. When Billy Bragg sings about a City of Heroes, I think of these people. Parents are heroes. Parents are doing really hard and fantastic work.
Thank you to everyone giving kids a sense of fairness and justice. You’re priming them for the tomorrow we need.
Learn about Minnesota 50501 and volunteer at mn50501.org.