Act 7: Do a Police Ride Along

Ready for action!

I feel like I need to be honest and say that I did this act Rhonda-style.  That is, I did it with purpose and with the intention to learn, but also in the safest way possible.  Don't judge!  Just because I decided I wanted to go on a Wednesday morning instead of a full moon Saturday night doesn't make this any less interesting.  Well, ok.  It doesn't make it any less interesting to me.  

First let me begin by saying that the fine folks at the Durham Police Department were extremely helpful, gracious, and accommodating when it came to setting up my ride-along.  It took a little while for my application to wend its way through the bureaucracy, but once it did, it was very easy to set an appointment.

I showed up at 8:45 on a Wednesday morning and was quickly introduced to my guide for the day, Officer Graham.  I was pleased to hear that he had actually volunteered to have me along. Turns out, he was a great partner for the day and a natural teacher.  

We began our day by wrapping some details from yesterday's patrol - an attempted suicide.  EMS and the police were able to assist the victim, saving her life.  I was surprised to hear that in addition to helping to intervene in the crisis, the PD also worked with the victim and her family to get help and support after the event.  While he was inside the sub-station speaking the the victim's family, I surreptitiously took a few police car selfies.  

I think I was pretty intimidating here...

Life in the front seat is MUCH nicer than in the back, I imagine...

From there, we headed out on patrol.  This involved cruising through the neighborhoods in North Durham and being visible.  Officer Graham did this very well.  Every neighborhood we drove through - from the upscale Treyburn to the more down trodden housing projects - he would wave and speak to pretty much everyone we saw.  He explained that this was essential to his work.  Establishing relationships with folks in the community made investigation and enforcement much easier down the road.  I got the feeling that he was invested in the people he served.  That focus on the improvement of the community was something I would hear over and over throughout my time in the car.

As we drove around, Officer Graham explained the training involved in becoming an officer.  It was no joke!  Rigorous classroom work with frequent assessments, a ride along period and later supervised duty with two different seasoned officers.  There was one final hurdle an officer had to clear before being released on his own: a community improvement project.  During the apprenticeship person, each officer was expected to observe and come up with something - a suggestion or project - that would improve the communities they serve.  (Officer Graham's idea was to better label the buildings in apartment complexes, making residences easier to find.)  More evidence of building community.

Before too long, we got a call to go help out at an accident site.  EMS was on the scene already, but our blue lights were needed to help manage traffic around the accident.  I learned that accident scenes are some the most dangerous for officers and EMS workers because motorists are either A. really nosy and too busy rubbernecking to pay attention to driving or B. not paying attention at all and on auto-pilot or absorbed in their phones.  I witnessed first-hand close calls because of both these things.  (Be careful out there, people!!!)

Every car feels like a mobile office!

After the accident was cleared, we headed back out on patrol.  While out, we found a shady spot and Officer Graham worked on his reports.  He showed me the computer system that DPD uses to manage all the reports, databases and information.  It was quite something!  We could see where all the cars on patrol were, and any time we got a call, the details for that call would automatically populate.  As we drove around, the GPS told us where we were (in case we had to report it quickly to dispatch) and what, if anything, was going on around us.

Being an officer involved driving around - a lot.  After we had been in the car for about 2 hours, a call came up at an address familiar to Officer Graham.  "Let's go stretch our legs."  The situation was an elderly gentleman who called the police to complain about a problem in his neighborhood.  When we arrived, we found another officer already on the scene.   We went inside and it was not what I expected at all!  It felt like a social call.  Officer Graham asked a few questions to ascertain what the trouble was.  (In a nutshell, kids are hoodlums.)  It became clear pretty quickly that what this citizen really needed was company.  We and the other officer stayed and chatted with him for a few minutes.  He brought out photos of his children and his grandchildren.  He told us how sad he was since his wife passed.  This was not what I imagined police work to be, but as we headed back to the car, Officer Graham explained that there was a fair bit of social work involved.  

The morning was pretty quiet, overall.  We helped direct traffic around a stranded motorist.  We drove through a few run down apartment complexes, and Officer Graham told me stories about some of the crazy things he has seen.  We talked about the biggest problem in Durham ("Gangs.  Black on black crime.") and the rising homicide rate (20 in the 7 months of this year.  Last year, we had 24 total.).  He told me about how drugs - particularly heroin - are crippling some of the neighborhoods in town.  

Almost on cue, a call came through.  There was a 24-year old man found non-responsive, a heroin overdose, at the Red Roof Inn.  As we watched the case unfold, Officer Graham explained that the drug Narcan meant that more people came back from overdoses.  While it saves the lives of the people who are in danger, apparently they are usually pretty belligerent and angry to find out their high was "ruined."  "They come to swinging," he told me.  I cringed while we headed toward the call.

However, I was saved by a fender bender!  Instead of joining the melee at the Red Roof Inn, we went to handle a minor traffic accident.  (Hooray!!!)  

That was the last call of the morning, and so we headed back to Headquarters.  "If you want some real excitement, come back at night," Officer Graham advised.  "You know, the freaks come out at night." 

Thanks.  I will keep that in mind.

As we drove back to the police station, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the folks who are out on patrol every day and night, keeping us safe.  They see the best and, more often, the worst of human behavior.  They have to react on a moment's notice to a wide range of situations - alternately being calming and nurturing or authoritative and menacing - or something in between.  They put themselves in danger every day, and they do it with a sense of pride and concern for the community they serve.  The teacher in me understands where that calling comes from, and the scaredy-cat in me greatly appreciates that they do it, so I don't have to.  

Still, I have to admit, it was kinda badass to get to pretend for a day.

This is 40

It happened.  I have turned 40.  I'm still working my way through the 40 Acts, but it felt like this occasion deserved reflection.

The actual day was everything I had hoped it would be: full of friends and family, good food, free-flowing beverages, and some very very very bad karaoke.  Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I will share some of the photos that have been shared with me...

Selfie station!

My Uncle Steve spent all day cooking Mr. Porky here.  

My SisterFriends took such good care of all the little details!

Sister Friend Heidi made a slew of owl lanterns to beautify things.
This is the "Miss Rhonda" owl, on account of her blue eyes and sparkly tiara.

Sister Friend Meldy made these ADORABLE owl cupcakes.
They tasted even better than they looked.

In addition to doing almost all the party set up,
 My Mom made this beautiful photo book.  

Did I mention there was a bouncy house?

My backyard was completely transformed.
(Thanks, Amy for the great photos!)

This happened.

And this.

The CIA Girls were in full effect!

Making an extra big Birthday Wish.

Honestly, I think I expected to feel different once it was all said and done.  But, aside from a little headache from too much drink and too little sleep, I felt like the same ol' Rhonda.

The next morning, I found these little messages at the selfie station...

In the week since turning 40, I have come to realize that I am anything but the same ol' Rhonda.  I barely recognize the person I was just a few short years ago.  This is a good thing.

I couldn't wish for anything more.

Act 10: Get a Tattoo

For a while, I was under the impression that there was a certain window in a person's life where it was "acceptable" to get a tattoo.  If pressed, I'd have to say that it was probably during college, but most definitely in the 20's.  And certainly not something a grown ass woman (GAW) should be doing.  I was always kind of interested in getting something, but there was nothing I felt strongly about enough to get it permanently emblazoned on my body.   That, and it looked like it would hurt.  I had visions of me going to get inked and crying my eyes out - unable to stand the pain and chickening out with it half done.  (Just like Phoebe did on Friends.)



 Still, the idea kept coming back to me again and again.  So when I started to make my list, "Get a tattoo" was in the top 10. It took me forever to make up my mind.  A quote wouldn't work because it would have to be too big.  I didn't want anything in color.  I didn't want anything too cutesy.  Or pretentious.  I wanted something meaningful, but not too abstract.  I collected images for about 2 years, agonizing on just the right thing.  And then, once you decide WHAT to get, I had to figure out WHERE to get it.  Blah, blah, blah.  It was exhausting!!!

I finally got some clarity when I broke down and consulted an actual tattoo artist.  T.J.  at Dogstar Tattoo was so helpful!  First, he very subtlely and gently steered me away from the cliches.  He also advised me to go commit to something - no hidden messages or anything like that.  If it's important enough to put it on your body, it's important enough to be visible.  Finally, he advised me on body placement - what wears well and what doesn't, what will hurt more than something else.  He very patiently answered every question I had and asked me a few very insightful ones that helped direct me toward figuring out what it was I really wanted.

I pondered it for a few more days.  I sifted through my pinboards.  I looked at a WHOLE BUNCH of tattoo photos.  I tried to piece together elements of stuff that I liked, but nothing spoke to me.  That is until I stumbled upon the VERY FIRST photo I downloaded way back when I first started thinking about doing this.

I made an appointment with Meldy, and suddenly, it was on!

Ready to rock and roll!

It was not nearly as painful as I anticipated.

For the record, that's excitement - not pain.

Voila!  The finished product!

I settled on a variation of a symbol which - very appropriately - means "Courage."  (Well, "courage" or "I'm easier than I look."  My Celtic scholar wasn't 100% certain.  Eh.  Details.)

  The swirly design mirrors a doodle that I have been doing for years.  To me, it symbolizes the endless thinking, considering, pondering, fretting - round and round - that I am prone to.  But the two points reminds me that there comes a time when you have to have the courage to stop thinking and start doing.  It was the perfect metaphor for this whole experiment.

And I didn't even cry!

Act 27: Take a Ballroom Dance Lesson (Or Two!) On My Own

The purpose of this act was to get me out of the house and to do something active where I just might meet some new people.   I didn't realize it would challenge my entire notion about myself...

But first, some context: 

When I was six, my mom signed me up for gymnastics.  I remember being so excited to get dressed up in a leotard and go learn to be like Nadia Comaneci.  I was in a class with 5-6 other girls my age, and it didn't take long to realize I was different.  

While the other girls were learning cartwheels, "skin the cat" and other graceful tumbling skills, the teacher made me do log rolls, forward rolls and the very-creatively-named bar hang. It seemed unfair that the other girls got to do all the fun and graceful stunts,  while I was mostly earth bound.  Until I looked around at the girls in my class.  They did not look like me.  At all.  I was at least 4 inches taller than all of them - closer to the teacher's height than my classmates.  And while they all had the coltish, long, spindly legs and lithe torsos so common in little girls, I was shaped like a barrel with meaty arms and legs.  Yes. There was no denying it.  I was the fat kid.

6th Grade was particularly awesome.

All throughout my elementary school years, it was painfully obvious.  Not only was I chunkier than my classmates, but I was tall.  Tall enough to look down on the heads of the other kids.  When the teacher would line us up shortest to tallest - you guessed it - I was always last in line.  And to make matters worse, I wore old lady glasses.  And because I had unruly curly hair, my mom kept it cut short in an old lady hairstyle.  I looked so much like a middle-aged woman, I was often mistaken for a substitute teacher.  It was about as awesome as you think it would be.  Still, at that point, I hadn't entered junior high, so I though I was still pretty OK.

I will spare the details.  Suffice to say within the first week or two of entering 7th grade,  I was nicknamed "Hindenberg" by a particularly vile older boy.  The name didn't stick, but the impression it left on me sure did.  From that day on, I told myself that I was a gigantic clod.

 While all the other girls were this:

Graceful, lithe, lovely.

I was this:

Clumsy, solid, servicable

That narrative would go on to shape my view of my self for most of my adult life.  When the girls around me starting dating, I did it as little as possible.  I would allow myself to show interest in someone only if he liked me first - and trust me, that was slim pickings.  There was one boy in 10th grade who was just lovely.  He was kind and sweet, and even though I was about 4 inches taller than he was, we were headed toward being a couple.  That is, until one of the guys in chorus class pointed out that I looked like his mom standing next to him.  He stopped talking to me after that.

Rather than mope, I instead decided to cultivate an image of sarcastic wit and intellect.  I hung out with guys, but they were only friends.  I became intimidating to scare off those who might have a chance to reject me.  And all the while, I told myself if I were more graceful, more dainty, more ladylike, things would be different.  But I wasn't, so they weren't.

This went on for a very long time.  I  set very strict parameters for any guy I would consider dating. (In hindsight, I was using the completely WRONG criteria, but what the hell did I know?)  As the years went by and relationships started and ended, I realized that maybe I wasn't so hideous after all. Turns out, beauty really IS in your attitude.  And as I got older, I started to appreciate what I did have, rather than dwell on what I didn't.  But I still thought that a man had to be a certain type to be able to "handle" a woman like me.  And I still couldn't get over the idea that I was an clumsy, graceless, clod.

Hence the dance lessons.

My thinking was that if could learn a few good dance moves, maybe I would be more graceful and less awkward.  I read a great blog post entitled 12 Life Lessons I Learned from Dancing, and so it went on  the list.

I showed up for my first lesson with a little trepidation. There were other couples out on the floor - rehearsing for a showcase that was coming up - and they all  looked... amazing!  So polished and graceful. I felt like an elephant in dancing shoes.  This is going to be comical, I thought to myself as I waited for my teacher.  

After a moment, two gentlemen came out to greet me.  One was tall and rakishly handsome.  The other, I realized upon standing, came up to my nose.  I smiled and introduced myself.  The tall man, Yuri, took my hand and asked if I was ready for my lesson, and I nodded, a bit unsure, but determined.  

"Excellent.  This is Dma, and he will be your teacher.  I hope you enjoy your lesson."  He then handed me over and strode off toward his waiting partner.  I blinked.

Dma introduced himself and asked me a few questions about what I wanted to learn.  I answered as best I could, but I was distracted.  I had come to try to learn to be graceful and less awkward, but looking at the reflection Dma and I cast in the mirror, all I could think was - He looks like my son.  Still.  I was here for a reason, and I was going to make the most of it. "I have to warn you, I am notoriously clumsy.  I will try not to hurt you," I laughed, self-consciously.  He laughed too, and told me not to worry.  I listened carefully while Dma explained some of the basics of what he would be teaching me.  He showed me how he would signal me when  it was time to turn or twirl or change directions.  I listened with skepticism, and couldn't imagine how that little man was going to handle this Amazon.    I shouldn't have worried.

It took about two minutes of chatting to learn that Dma, in addition to being a very kind and patient fellow, knew his stuff.  As he counted out the steps, he guided me through how to shift my weight from one foot to the next to move from one step to another.  When I would get too much in my own head worrying about what comes next, he'd distract me with idle chit-chat until my feet were following his.  He showed me which way to go with a gentle squeeze of his hand, or light pressure on my waist.  He had no trouble "handling" me at all.

By the end of our series of lessons, we were moving across the floor - if not effortlessly, at least with relative ease.  I couldn't believe the things he got me to do!  As I glanced at us in the mirror, all I noticed was how well we moved together, and how big the smile on my face was.  

It occurred to me that maybe the clumsy, amazonian narrative that I had been repeating to myself was just a fabrication.  Maybe it's time to start telling myself a new story.  

The Limits of Love

I've been thinking a lot about love.  As I reflected a past post, we have been given a working definition of what love should be.  However, the more I think about it, the more I realize that vision of love is the ideal.  It would be really great if we could all love each other with the selflessness and purity that the Apostle Paul lays out, but that is an exceedingly rare thing.  Does that mean, then, that if we cannot achieve this ideal, that we do not love?

Absolutely not!

As I look at how I've grown over the course of this project, I can see changes in myself.  I'm more comfortable in my own skin and more forgiving of my mistakes and shortcomings.  I'm kinder to myself, less critical. more accepting.  And as this kindness has grown, I find it much easier to extend it to the people in my life.  It's easier to be around the people in my life - especially my children.  My relationships are more relaxed, less forced, and more comfortable.  It seems that as my self-love grows, so too does my ability to love others grow.

It seems that we love others the way we love ourselves.  If we love ourselves with contingencies, qualifications and strings, then that is the way we will love others.  If we love ourselves wholly, then we can love others wholly.  Our self love sets the parameters for the love we can give others.  Those are the limits of love.

Suddenly, it makes sense to me!  Rumi writes, "Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."  Our self loathing, harsh judgement and fears are the barriers.  They are the things that keep us from truly being able to love.    If we do not feel ourselves deserving of a whole, complete, and unconditional love, then we simply cannot accept it.  Loving yourself - for the messed up, flawed, awkward, selfish, petty person you are is the key to everything. 

I consider this truth, and realize that I was mistaken about those past relationships that I had determined to not be love.  Just because we didn't live up to the ideal doesn't mean it wasn't love.  We did the best we could at the time.  (We ALL do the best we can with what we have available at the time.)  The love I was able to receive was limited by my self love, just as the love my partners could accept from me was limited by theirs.  It wasn't premeditated or intentional; we just ran up against the barriers we had within ourselves.  This realization helps the lingering hurt and bitterness to just dissipate, and brings me so much peace. I don't have to be angry because someone didn't love me the way I needed to be loved.  And I don't have to punish myself for not being able to do the same.  I can acknowledge the experience, learn from it, and add it to the wisdom that I am collecting with age.  I can accept it for what it was, be grateful for the opportunity, and use that to open my heart just a little bit more.

And that's one more barrier removed.

Act 35: Cook Dinner for Families at the Ronald McDonald House

I added this act to my list because I wanted a balance.  I had a bunch of frivolous and self-indulgent acts, but I wanted to do something that would be of service to others as well.  Turns out, if you are so inclined, there are many, many opportunities in the Triangle area to pitch in and volunteer.  In fact, there is an entire meetup group - Triangle Do-Gooders - devoted to just that.

I chose the Ronald McDonald house because it was close by, and I chose to cook dinner because that's something I know how to do.  I kind of thought this would be an easy item to check off the list, and one that I could pat myself on the back for being a good and helpful citizen.  I didn't expect it to take 4 months for me to be able to write about it.

First of all, the process for signing up for dinner was pretty painless.  I RSVPed for an event as soon as it was listed.  These things fill up quickly!   There is a group coordinator, Nancy, who does all the menu planning and shopping.  On this particular night, we were serving baked chicken, mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and apples, and salad.  Before we met in the kitchen at the RMH, Nancy had

already deboned about 18 pounds of chicken.  We had 10 pounds of potatoes, 6 pounds of carrots, and 4 bags of apples that needed to be peeled, prepped, and cooked.  The crew for dinner that night was 8 people, plus Nancy.  We all set about industriously peeling.

Every time one of us would finish a task, we'd go to Nancy.  "Now what can I do?"  She must have answered that question 59 times, but each time, she pleasantly assigned the next task and went right back to what she was doing.  Her strategy would rival an army general in its precision and efficiency.  Slice these lemons.  Prep that salad.  Melt the butter for this.  Whip up those potatoes.  It seemed like no time at all before we were putting out platters of food for the families.  Before they went on the buffet, Nancy gave them a final check - to make sure they were garnished and beautiful.

I thought my work was done, but then the families started to trickle down to the kitchen.  I don't know what I was expecting, but I was surprised to see their diversity.  It occurred to me that illness doesn't discriminate between rich and poor, brown or pale.  All the families I saw were in crisis.  And they each seemed so insular in their pain.

It was hard for me to consider, because I kept thinking about The Boy and The Girl.  I have two healthy and wonderful children. They've never had to fight for their lives.  I felt guilty for my good fortune and afraid to get too close - as if by doing so would cause something to rub off on us.  I know that's silly, and I know that's small, but that's what it was.

We were cleaning up when a woman in her early 40s came charging into the kitchen with her husband and two small girls in tow.  Nancy welcomed the family and directed them to the dinner that had been prepared, but this mom was on a mission.  She opened the grocery store bag she was carrying and pulled out a package.  While the girls and her husband stood back slightly, she searched until she found a pan and began to heat it on the stove.

"Are you sure you don't want some dinner?" Nancy inquired.

The mom looked at her, wild eyed and determined and replied, "No.  My son has not been able to eat for weeks.  Today he asked for a steak."  She jabbed toward the steak in the package on the counter.  "I haven't been able to do anything for him for weeks, but I. Am. Going. To. Make. Him. This. Steak."   She turned back to the stove.

I understood where that mother was coming from, though I could not comprehend the depths of her experience.  I could feel her despair and her ferocity.  Finally she had a task.  Something she could DO to help her child, and she was no about to let anything get between her and that task.   I also understood that if I didn't get out of there right then, I was going to embarrass myself in front of a bunch of people I didn't know.

I made it to the car before the tears started.

As I drove away, I thought about how smug I had been going into the experience - how I practically expected someone to congratulate me for being such a kind and selfless person.  I thought about how while we were preparing the meal, I was mentally cataloging the details that I would include when I wrote about my act of courage.  We prepared a beautiful meal for the families, and yes, it was done with some love.  But I really had no inkling.  Not a single clue.

All the way home, I thought about how blessed I am.  How charmed my life has been.  How charmed my life has been.  How lucky my children and I were.  I said a prayer for that mom, her son, her husband, and those two little girls.  I asked God's blessing on that meal she was preparing.  I am willing to bet that that steak was the best steak ever made.  It certainly was prepared with love.

The Corinthian Love Test

I've been doing a lot of thinking about love lately.  Seems like every artist or musician who ever put pen to paper has an opinion about its nature and meaning.

So what is love then? Is it dictated or chosen?

Does it sing like the hymns of a thousand years

Or is it just pop emotion?

And if it ever was there and it left

Does it mean it was never true?

-Indigo Girls, "Mystery"

And how is it possible that a fully grown mother of two doesn't have firm grasp on the concept?  I think my definition of love is evolving as I grow and change.  As I discover a deeper love for myself, I begin to see the deeper possibilities of loving someone else.

Regardless, I've struggled to come up with a definition and a way to reconcile some of the conflicting notions I've had lately about love.  And then I stumbled upon a sweet little blog post about tween crushes.  The author of the post tells how she suggested that her daughter evaluate the object of her crush by placing his name into the text of 1 Corinthians 13:4-7.

____ is patient, 

____ is kind. 

He does not envy, 

He does not boast, 

He is not proud. 

He does not dishonor others, 

He is not self-seeking, 

He is not easily angered, 

He keeps no record of wrongs. 

_______ does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 

He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Now, before you go getting all excited, I have to put in a disclaimer.  I'm no fan of the Apostle Paul.  In fact, I find most of his writings to be misogynistic and narrow.  However, in this letter to the church in Corinth, I think he hit on something very simple and very pure.  The nature of love is not the intensity of the feelings it inspires.  It's about acceptance and compassion, vulnerability and trust. So when I use Paul's text as a rubric to evaluate the loves of my life, suddenly there is no question as to what was love, and what was not - at least according to this definition.

Now comes the hard part.  I put my own name in passage.  Is Rhonda patient?  Is she kind?  Is she not easily angered?

(ANSWER KEY: Not nearly enough, when it's convenient, and no comment.)


The bottom line is that I love to the best of my ability; that's what we all do.  And just because we fall short of this ideal doesn't mean that we don't love.  Or does it?  These are the questions I now consider as I decide what my next steps are going to be.  Rather than seek out another to love, it is better to prepare myself to love to the very best of my ability.  Certainly in my case, that involves learning to love and accept my feelings, my past and present actions, and my whole self.  So rather than concentrate of seeking love, I will instead focus on knocking down the barriers that block it.

Maybe then, I can pass the Corinthian Love Test.