Powerlessness and action

Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash

This was originally published in June 2019. The global state has continued to shift, so I've edited it some to reflect my current feelings. 

I've been thinking a lot about powerlessness and action lately, which has led me down some real rabbit holes of research and exploration. For example, when I was looking at images for this post I ran an image search for "powerless." Once I tweaked a few settings to weed out stuff related to tv or religion, I was left with images of people standing with their heads down, looking (at best) really glum. I find this interesting because what I am learning is that, yes, there are many times I am and will be powerless, but how I move through that experience has a great deal to do with my mental health and ability to be resilient, as well as my ability to heal after the fact. Powerlessness sucks, but my response to it makes it more manageable or less.

When Kevin was sick, even though I knew I was ultimately powerless to change the outcome of his cancer, I found ease in doing what I could. I could comfort him, talk with the staff, and share information with everyone who loved him. It was by acting then that I know now I did the very best I possibly could for his comfort and well-being, even as he was dying. If I didn't have that assurance I doubt if I would be as relatively okay as I am; I have enough to regret, at least I know I did the best I could in the face of powerlessness to change the outcome.

Likewise, when I was in those first, harsh months after his death I gave myself over to grief. I couldn't change what had happened but I could make choices about how I responded. I knew the only way out was through, so I let myself mourn fully. I am still mourning him and always will, but I doubt I would have been able to let myself love Charley had I not made the choice to keep loving Kevin, and one way of expressing that was to grieve deeply.

This line of thinking comes out of looking for ways to manage my own frustrations and fears during the Trump administration. I am largely powerlessness to effect what my government is doing, but there are still things I can control and impact through the actions I take. I can decide how I respond. I can give into my fears (which is part of why he was elected, he's very good at feeding fear) and hide (which I sometimes really want to do) or I can take what power I have and use what I've got. I have a voice. I can make donations where I think they might help. I can let myself be seen, even when it's scary or possibly dangerous. I can act in ways that I think are moral, ethical, and right in spite of the many messages that it isn't important.

I also remind myself that allowing myself to be powerless, that giving up what power I have, is exactly what oppressors and despots want us to do. They want us to become so disheartened that we give up and become silent. When we do that we become complicit in our own disposal.

There will always be things I am powerless over, but I can choose which response I feed and how I act. I could have forced Kevin to try treatments that would have only harmed him in my quest to control his illness. Those wouldn't have saved or prolonged his life. I could have tried to suppress my grief, in which case I'm sure I would still be deep in the heart of it. I could feed fear and not publish this post or give in to those who try to silence me. I could overlook injustices that don't impact me because it's safer, but none of these things are who I want to be. By acting in the face of powerlessness I retain my ability to decide who I am and how I respond.

By engaging with my own powerlessness and choosing to act anyway, I become stronger. It's important that I remember to rest as well, but thinking of it as rest rather than giving up means I don't give up my sense of action. I might be powerless to create the kind of change I want in a timeline we need, but I can choose to keep trying and to rest while others pick up the ball. Whatever happens, I need to know I tried, I need to know I did what I could, I need to know that I stood in the face of powerlessness and claimed my own soul.

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(c)2019 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50 day 8: Barking against the dark

This is the eighth of 50 posts celebrating my 50th birthday. You can see the rest here.

I don't remember the first time I stood up for someone else. It might have been when I was eleven or twelve and in summer camp, though I expect it was earlier. Two of the girls in my bunk were refugees from Vietnam and had been sent to the camp by a charitable organization. They were teased by some of the other campers for looking different, for not speaking English, for whatever the reason of the day might have been. The girls had arrived at camp excited and happy; now they flinched and were silent. Their joy had been stolen.

I spoke up. I yelled at the mean kids and eventually publicly confronted the camp manager so he couldn't pretend it wasn't happening. The bullies backed off, the girls began to smile again, and I had two loyal companions who tried to teach me Vietnamese while the rest of my bunk ignored me. I didn't think of it as a big deal, it was just the right thing to do. I still don't think of it as a big deal, it was just the right thing to do, though now I can see that this may not have been usual behavior for an eleven year old.

I have always believed in barking against the dark. When we are silent in the face of evil we become complicit. (Your definition of evil and mine may differ, and that's part of why I support freedom of speech, but that's another post.) I don't practice this perfectly, consistently, or particularly effectively most of the time, but I try.

Have you ever been in a situation where you've seen something upsetting and thought someone should do something about that! I am someone. You are, too. We have voices and can choose how to use them. It may sometimes put us at risk but, personally, there are times when I'd rather be at risk and know I did something than have to live with the knowledge that I shrank back. Much of the time all barking requires is a willingness to not close your eyes and pretend you don't see. It requires not being that camp manager.

I bark in all kinds of ways. Some are direct and confrontational; others are the subtle acknowledgements that yes, there are terrible things, and yes, there are things worth fighting for. Sometimes a bark is momentary break from the friction. It might be a moment of compassion, choosing to listen instead of argue, donating to a cause I believe in, or as simple as pointing out that something makes me uncomfortable. And sometimes I am too tired to bark, so I give myself permission to rest today and bark more tomorrow. I fail all the time. Then I try again when I can.

As I approach 50 I find myself more willing to bark and more willing to not bark, because I know there will be new opportunities tomorrow. I certainly cannot save the world alone, but the world will never move towards justice if we all choose to be silent instead.

How do you bark against the dark? How do you give yourself permission to rest? When did you first speak up? I'd love to know.

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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Creativity in times of stress: This is how it started video

I wrote last week about the power and frustration of everyday life when something hugely disruptive occurs. I wrote about it in the context of grief as well as in the current U.S. political climate.

As an artist, I have been somewhat stymied in the last few years. I'm working, I'm performing, but Kevin's death has changed the way my creative process functions. It is much harder. I feel as though I'm operating in a vacuum, that my greatest ally, co-creator and most constructive critic is no longer around. It feels this way because it's true. In the last year or so I've been slowly finding new ways to create new work, but it's hard.

The recent U.S. election and inauguration has added to my difficulty creating. I find myself questioning the worth and value of the art I make in this climate that feels so antithetical to what I do best. It feels the way it did in the first few months after his death when I felt alone and adrift, that my art could make no difference in the world. I question the value of the work, the thing that has shaped me and my life for years, and therefore my own value.

The answer, of course, is to keep working. To be silenced is to capitulate, to say that yes, the arts in general (and my art in particular) lacks relevance. I don't believe that, though some days it's hard to remember. I believe that now more than ever we need art; as sustenance, as distraction, as fuel for the hard work of creating change; as that necessary break that helps us remember the best of who we are and the possibilities of who we might become.

Part of my answer to the question of my own relevance is to make art that I find meaningful. Part of my answer is to help others find their own voices, to help create space where we all can be heard, to take that subversive step of believing that what we do and who we are still matters.

It's not easy. I am faltering every step of the way. But it's something. It helps me build connection, nourish others and myself, and find a way through in these challenging times.

What arts are nourishing you? What are you creating? How do you keep going? I'd love to know.

The following video was recorded in January of 2017 at the Atlantic City Story Slam. This story has changed some, but it's a start and sometimes letting the flawed process be visible is as important as anything else.



(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Two wolves: What do you feed?

Revised version of a post from earlier this week on think-story.blogspot.com

I posted last week, prior to the election, about listening in a political season. Essentially I was reminding you that we all need to be better listeners and this deeply divisive election perhaps reflected the deep listening deficit in our culture.

Now that the election has passed I am certain of it. Our culture is fractured and this will be reflected in every relationship and organization in the country. Even if everyone you know, everyone in your communities and work voted the same way and has the same feelings about the election, the national divides will have an impact (that may be the understatement of the year). There is a great deal I could say here about politics and fear and empathy or the lack thereof - I have said some of it elsewhere in this blog - but here I'd like to take a moment to tell you a story.

This story is attributed to the Cherokee people, though no one is sure of its origin.

One evening an old man looked at his grandson. He could see the boy was growing up, was beginning to compare himself to others and hunger for things that he has never wanted before. 

He told his grandson this story.

He said, “My son, there are two wolves that live inside of me. They live inside of you, too. One is evil. It is full of anger and jealousy, sorrow and regret, greed and arrogance. It is every darkness and unkindness. The other is good. It is compassion and joy, love and hope, kindness and empathy. It is every light and moment of connection. They are both fierce and powerful, and they are fighting.”

The old man was silent and watched his grandson consider the wolves. The boy thought, then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”

The old man replied, “The one you feed.”

I tell you this story now, when we will experience stress and division made visible post election, because we need to remember that what we feed, thrives. How can you help your community feel listened to, especially those who fear they may be about to lose their voice? What kind of listening do you need? What about those who just voted very loudly? How do we create safety for all of our friends, our families, our communities and ourselves? What stories do we need now, in a rapidly changing world?

Please let me know if I can help.

(c) 2016 Laura S. Packer

Breathing when there is no air

It is the morning after the 2016 presidential election.

I'm not sure what to say. One story won. Another one lost. There are so many things I could say, about the power of story, about using story as a tool for building bridges and understanding, about listening, on and on and on. You know I can go on and on and on but this morning it feels too trivial. Too many people I love are going to be damaged by what is coming.

I initially titled this post When the story isn't yours. That's how I feel this morning, but I also realize that millions of people have felt that way for the last eight years (or longer). There are so many things I could say about that. About bridges and understanding and listening. But I won't. It feels ineffective, for all that I know in my heart of hearts that it is the right path. Too many people I love are going to be damaged by what is coming.

For today, for right now, I will breathe as best as I can. What else can I do? I invite you to do the same. Breath is the storyteller's instrument, it is what powers us and is sacred. It is life. So breathe. If your story won last night then I'd ask you to take a breath before telling those whose story didn't win that they are losers, then work like hell to make the world a better place. You have the power. If your story lost then take a breath before coloring all the winners hateful and the same, then work like hell to make the world a better place. You have the power.

I am not saying we can stay still. I am saying we can work and fight for what we believe in, breathing deeply the whole time. Too many people I love are going to be damaged by what is coming for me to stay still.

The amazing thing about stories is that we each get to tell our own. The amazing thing about stories is that when we listen to others we sometimes discover new worlds and new common ground. I can't believe that this is the end of our story. I won't.

Have your coffee. Take a breath then another. Grieve or celebrate. Be kind where you can be kind. Speak out when you can. And let's get to work.

p.s. I know some of you are, quite rightfully, looking at this as a load of bull. Bad things can, do and will happen. Listening doesn't stop someone from beating you because of what you look like or who you love. But I have to start somewhere. We all do. This is what I know how to do. That and work like hell for what I believe in.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Fear, grief and elections

I want to write about something else. I want to write about anything else, but I can't. The presidential election is next week and I am having trouble thinking about unrelated things.


If you've been reading this blog for any length of time then you likely have a good sense of my political leanings. I expect you and I have some similar feelings regardless of who we each are voting for. We're hopeful. We are afraid of the consequences if our opponent wins. If you lost someone you love you likely have thought something like Well, at least they don't have to see this, then gulping back tears and horror that you thought such a thing.


I never thought I would find a political season so triggering, but I am. I am actively afraid of what happens if my candidate loses and the fear makes me yearn for the safety of living with my partner. I find myself, for the first time, feeling unsafe because I live alone.


I think about the conversations Kevin and I would be having, the fears we each would name and those we would conceal to protect the other. I think about how he and I had our particular lenses through which we view politics - he was a black man and a Christian, I am a white woman and Jewish with some other leanings. We each focused on different issues but we generally selected the same candidates. I'm sure we would have this year.


I think about how he and I would comfort each other when we became afraid, saying No matter what happens we will make it through together. I suppose we did make it through together, though with very different destinations.


I think about my father and the loathing he expressed for one of the candidates, long before they ever sought political office. Frankly, when I think I'm so glad he doesn't have to see this I'm thinking mostly of my father. This election alone would have been enough to break his heart.


Political grief hides itself in legislation and decisions made for the wrong reasons, as punishment or payback. I pray our elected officials remember that they are representing all of us, that they remember loss and grief need not lead to retribution. I am experiencing political grief because I am stunned that so many Americans are supporting something I know in my bones is not kind, is not honest, is not what is best about America. I am grieving my belief that we were better than this.


There are so many things I want to write here, about fear and grief and hope. Instead I will say this.

I will try to remember that everyone is voting for their own reasons, driven by hope or fear or frustration. While I may not agree, those reasons are as valid (or invalid) as mine.
I will try to remember that feeling a grain of relief that Kevin and my father aren’t here to see this madness isn’t the same as being glad they are dead.
I will pray we all remember to be kind to each other after the election as some of us will mourn a different kind of loss, that of possibility. 


(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Some thoughts on storytelling in a political season

My heart is breaking. Every time I watch the news, read the paper or open Facebook I feel myself flinch. The words spoken, the stories told in this political season are destructive, selected to tear down the other and enclose the tribe in walls of thorns and poison. I shudder and close my eyes, hoping it will all go away.

You probably feel this way, too, regardless of your political persuasion. Whether you support this side or that, our dark selves are being revealed, reviled and reveled in. My heart cracks as I see people I thought "better than that" say things they might never have dared say before. In some ways this may be a good thing since it means we now know just how many of the other there are, but I still want to believe, need to believe that we are more alike than we are different, that we still all care about similar things, that we will be kind when we can.

What's a storyteller to do?

I can think of three responses that don't rise out of fear and instead reflect the things that drive me to tell stories, listen to others and do my best to create a world in which all can be heard.

The first is to remember that these are stories and that storytelling is an incredibly powerful tool. Our brains change when we listen to stories. The politicians have master craftspeople working with them to tell the stories that they think will persuade more people to vote for them. Whether they use fear, empathy, demagoguery or logic, they are using spoken stories to make us care. It is all manipulation, all political storytelling. When I remember that this is the dark side of storytelling it helps me listen with more clarity. It helps me feel less afraid.

While it doesn't necessarily make me feel any better, I think it's worth remembering the basic neurology of storytelling in times like these. It can be used for good or for evil and when we, the audience, remember this we can more easily choose how to respond. We can decide if we want to believe what our brains are telling us and we can remember to look deeper. I'm not suggesting that we need to go into every storytelling experience with this level of skepticism, but I do think we need to remember that the things we do as performers to build empathy and connection with the audience, to entrance them, are no different from the things being done to us as political consumers. This also helps me when I wonder how anyone can support a candidate with whom I disagree. It helps me feel empathy for the audience if not for the story and the teller.

The second is to remember that so much of the response to what is being said arises out of fear. We are all afraid that we are alone, that we are different, that we are not of the tribe or we are fearful of those outside our tribe. If I cut to the chase and listen to those who believe things I may not, I am often surprised by what I hear. They (whoever they may be) likely care about the same things I do. We both want our families to be safe and secure, we both want to know that the world will not harm us, we both want to feel as though things we believe in are being done in our names. The methods may differ as may some of the hoped-for outcomes, but the underlying fears and hopes are largely the same. I can use my story ears to listen to each individual and hope that they will listen to me, I can use my storytelling skills to encourage empathy, I can believe that we can find common ground. It won't always work, but I know I feel better, feel less disempowered, if I at least try.

A third thing I can try, though I have to face down all my fears to do it, is to tell my own story in a clear compelling way. I may not change anyone's mind, but I know I have tried. I can choose what story I tell and how. For instance, this year on election day I will drive people to the polls. I need to know I tried. Sometimes we need to know we have acted so we can tell ourselves the story of self that we most need to hear regardless of the context within which it exists.

None of  this stops my heart from breaking. None of this stops my fears from gripping me in a stranglehold. None of this will stop me from voting for my candidate as you vote for yours. But maybe remembering that these stories are deliberately manipulative and the "other side" is little different from me will help assuage the fear and remind me that there is still room for hope.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: I am privileged

Caveat: I've been struggling with this post for awhile so am publishing it to get it out of my head. It's rambling and repetitive, I know. I'm throwing ideas at the wall and seeing what sticks.

Not long ago I declared an interest in writing a post about storytelling and privilege. That was dumb. This whole issue has me stuck in a mire of frustration and uncertainty, so I'm writing this post to get it out of my system. I have no answers, only questions and a reminder to admit my own good luck and circumstance.

I've gone around and around about what I want to say. I came up with sweeping generalizations, some scathing indictments of a culture that doesn't value arts adequately, pointed observations about how privilege hurts our art yet some of us profit from it. I had hours of conversations about privilege. I was told I should write about white privilege, economic privilege, cultural privilege and more.

My head was spinning and I got lost. This is such a big topic and so pervasive, I found I had too much to say and became mute.

What I can write about is my own, personal experience with privilege and my response to it. Perhaps some of you will feel a resonance with it and might be moved to think about privilege in your own artistic lives (or lives in general). If you're wondering if you might be privileged here is a quiz you can take.

Let me start with the following admission: I am living a life of incredible privilege. I am a white, middle-class woman whose appearance falls within ordinary parameters. I am mostly able-bodied and able-minded. When I decided to leap into self-employment I spent two years building savings specifically for a safety net AND I had a spouse who was willing to support me while I got the business up and running. When he died I still had an economic safety net, so I was able to make the choice to continue self-employment.

I am very lucky.

I feel as though I can only write about privilege in personal terms though it's a global issue. I hope that by acknowledging it, I become more aware of it on a routine basis and so will more readily extend a hand up to those what may not have my arbitrary advantages. I hope that my understanding of it will be sharpened and I can more readily monitor my own responses and be aware of those times when I get something not because I deserve it but because of my status. I hope that I remember my obligation to open those same doors for others. None of this means I feel particularly guilty about having these privileges, I don't see the point in that. What it does mean is I think I have an obligation to acknowledge it and to use it for the greater good.

I am absolutely certain there are gifted artists who do not have the option to devote themselves to their art. They create in the interstices, time stolen from their jobs or their families. I wish we lived in a world that would permit them more latitude. All I can do is support their work when I encounter it and try to create opportunity for them. I am also certain there are gifted artists who do not want to pursue art full-time and that's fine. Wallace Stevens maintained his insurance career while writing poetry that changed American literature. He wanted the security and social network a job provides. There is nothing wrong with that.

Storytelling is a universal art. If you are human, you tell stories. Yet when I look at career storytellers and those who are up-and-coming I don't see an even representation of my larger community. I am not an even representation of it. I try to counter it by being aware, by promoting and mentoring tellers who do not have the same privilege I do. I fail often. I try again.

I am writing this because I don't have answers. I don't know what to do about it, because it seems as though the ideal solution involves systemic change I don't know how to create (though I hope my small actions have ripples). All I can do is ask the questions and make the best, most informed choices I can.

I am incredibly lucky. I certainly have to make careful decisions but I am building the life I want through hard work, tremendous support and privilege. Economic, racial, cultural, sexual and more.

I am writing all of this because I am struggling with the idea of privilege and living the creative life. I don't believe starving artists are the only kind of legitimate artist - frankly I wish that stereotype wasn't ongoing and sometimes accurate - but I do believe many of us who are able to live this creative life are doing so from a place of privilege. We have a responsibility to at least acknowledge it then to try to make it possible for those less fortunate to experience the same opportunities. It's so often about access to opportunity; those who are less privileged may not hear of opportunities or may not have the resources to reach for them. I don't see the point in railing about a skewed cultural value of art and artists though I do believe our society has some misplaced visions of worth and payment. Mostly I believe I can make a difference by naming my own privilege, by trying to change systemic bias, by offering a hand when I can, by being grateful for what I have, and by continuing to ask difficult questions.

I don't have solutions for any of these questions but they are worth asking. I think we all deserve a chance to shine. I'd love to know how you think about privilege in general and in storytelling in particular.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

X is for xenophobia

I’m participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge throughout April.
Monday - something light to start the week. A bit of self-care, creativity challenge or the like.
Tuesday - telling notes for a specific story or kind of story. Tips and tricks to help you think about what you're telling and how.
Wednesday - my usual #tellinglife post, looking at some of the more personal aspects of storytelling and its role in my life.
Thursday - a dip into some of the issues facing contemporary storytelling or a dive into some of the more unusual applications of storytelling.
Friday - my usual personal post about life following the death of my husband
Saturday - the storytelling coach offers a tip you can use right now. An example of the kinds of tools I encourage my students to use.

Xenophobia:
An unreasonable fear or hatred of foreigners or strangers or of that which is foreign or strange.

Annette Simmons has wisely said that Storytelling is an antidote to war. My friend and mentor, Brother Blue, believed that storytelling was the path to world peace because How could you kill someone if you know their story?

Storytelling strips the mask away from xenophobia. When we hear stories from people we consider foreign or strange we can choose to recognize our shared humanity or we can choose to embrace mindless fear and hatred. We can't do both. We must choose and we are revealed. It is in the stories that we find ourselves and our common ground so by listening we dare to set aside fear.

Shared stories break down boundaries. When we listen to folktales or myths from another culture we recognize our own. When we listen to someone tell stories about their life, their family, their hopes and dreams, we recognize ourselves. The U.S. military understands that we can change more hearts and minds through storytelling than we can with bombs or MREs. They have funded multiple studies that show over and over again how stories - told and heard - create empathy and change. More than guns. More than handouts. Stories give us a no man's land where we can find ourselves reflected in another's eyes. If the military gets it maybe we can, too.

Brother Blue's statement may seem over the top, but isn't it worth trying to connect with those we may find frightening before we lash out? Isn't it worth telling them a tale or two and listening to their stories first? What's the worst that happens if we try to set aside xenophobia and find common ground? War and prejudice can always be a second option. In this world, where it's so easy to make assumptions, where we're told we should be on the attack, taking the time to listen becomes a radical act.

Maybe storytelling can save the world. It's a least worth a shot.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Using storytelling for evil or good

I have been teaching storytelling in a wide variety of settings for many years. There comes a moment in every class when I make students laugh with what I think is actually one of the most important and serious instructions I can give them.

I remind them that storytelling is so powerful that they need to be careful how they use it. It can be used for good. And it can be used for evil. At this point everyone laughs until I give them some examples of the dark side of storytelling. Hitler. The Cultural Revolution. Rwanda. The Ku Klux Klan. So many times, the incredible power of spoken narrative has driven people to commit terrible acts, to believe the worst about the world around them and to lash out. Students grow quiet. Their eyes widen. I can see each of them considering the stories they have told and the ones they have believed. They see its power abused and remember what people have been driven to do.

It's not a joke. I wish it were. 

Storytelling is so effective because our brains are wired for story. We feel more empathy and are more likely to act when we hear a compelling story than through just about any other form of persuasion. For that very reason we need to both be deliberate about the stories we tell and the messages we give AND be aware of when we are being manipulated by a well-told story.

We live in a nuanced world. There are few absolute evils and absolute goods. Fairy tales make things simple; this is not a fairy tale world, life is rarely that clear-cut. When we believe stories that tell us that one life matters more than another, that one group of people is responsible for the woes in a culture, that our own fears and hopes can be answered by hurting others, we need to consider the narrative. Consider the speaker. Consider ourselves. 

No one is immune from a well-told story. Yes, story can change the world. We get to decide what stories we believe, what tellers we follow and how we want to respond. We get to decide what world we want to live in. Don't forget that a well-told story can be as dangerous as an incitement to riot, a call to war, a wall that divides us. Why not use story to build bridges instead?

(c) 2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Stories of fear

I was all set to write about mentoring or gratitude or stories to fight off the seasonal dark.
I was looking forward to exploring my own process in the hopes that I found something uplifting or useful for you.
I was good to go.

Then Paris happened. And Nigeria. My Facebook feed has been consumed with conflicting posts just as the news is full of headlines in capital letters and politicians tell us what we should do. We are surrounded handwringing and fear and reaction and and and...

We absorb and tell ourselves stories every day. Stories that help us get out of bed and go to work. Stories that remind us of our goals, purpose and relationships. Stories that give us a reason to keep going. The stories we tell are the roadmap for how we live.

Right now I am hearing story after story based in fear. My heart breaks.

I've been thinking about the stories we tell when we are afraid. The stories that we hope will keep us safe by assuring each other that if we only do this, then that will never happen here.

The acts of terrorism we have witnessed in the last few days are just that; acts of terror. People were murdered in an attempt to create division and fear. The people who carried out these attacks believed stories that said the West is evil. Non-Muslims are less than human. Their lives don't matter.

So many of the stories I see in the news and social media make me afraid, not because of the terrorist attacks but because I'm afraid the terrorists are succeeding in their goals.

I am reading horrific statements from people I love, implying the depth of their fear.
Muslims are the problem. They are evil.
Don't admit any refugees because there may be terrorists among them. Why treat them as if they are human and in need if there is any risk?
Send troops and let's kill them all. Their lives don't matter, certainly they matter less if it will keep us safe.

These stories create more division and fear. Fear drives us to tell stories we know are lies, but they offer us comfort. It is easier to blame a faceless mass of people than it is to look for ways to change the narrative entirely. I am not denying the horror. I am not denying the risk and danger. I am suggesting that we have a choice in how we respond and perhaps we should look at the broad nature of the stories we are telling.

Most Muslims are not evil. Most people are not evil. And we all are capable of evil acts.
Most refugees only want safety for themselves and their children. Enough food. A safe place to rest.
Lives matter.

I don't know the answers here. None of us do; if we did these things wouldn't be happening.
I do know it isn't cut and dry, there is complex history here let alone our own animal nature to respond to fear with violence.
I do know some of you will be upset by this blog post and will choose not to read me any more. That's okay.
I do know, and this is the point of this blog post, stories create a deep response in our brains, so the stories we tell influence our actions.

When we tell stories about a generic enemy and the need for retaliation we create one kind of world. If we tell stories that certainly acknowledge the evil that exists but also leave room for compassion and hope, we create another. We don't have to be blind to be compassionate.

Any one of us could be the problem.
Any one of us could be a refugee.
Any one of us could lose our child to war be they a soldier or a victim.

Evil is in the way the story is told.
Humanity is created when we listen to each other's stories.
As Brother Blue said over and over, when we listen to each other, we all become brothers.

What would happen if we told different stories? How would that change our lives?

(c)2015 Laura S. Packer

Some thoughts on free speech, bigotry and living in a new place

By and large, I am delighted with our move to Kansas City, Missouri. My beloved is much happier in his job, where he is creative, valued and challenged every day. I have leapt into building my own business as a storyteller, writer and consultant. We have met many wonderful people, we are making friends, we are happy. The Midwest seems to be treating us well.

But there is history that can't be escaped. In the urban Northeast, it's possible, though not easy, if you are white to pretend the U.S. is close to post-racial. What's easier is to be outraged at the things that are happening elsewhere, rant and rave but do nothing. The compromise many of us make (those of us who pay attention to these things) is to try to effect change, but do so from a place of little risk. It's easy to rant and rave, protest and march when the worst you are likely risking is a few days in jail.

Here in the Midwest (and likely all over the country outside of big, integrated urban areas) bigotry is often more visible. When we moved here, a friend told us to avoid a certain part of Missouri because it proudly bears the nickname "Little Dixie." Okay. Little Dixie sounds pretty scary to a mixed race couple, one African American, one Jewish. We would avoid Little Dixie. We would avoid the rural South. We would be smart and be safe and could still be outraged, rant and rave and try to effect change from a place of safety.

This was challenged when a rodeo clown at the Missouri State Fair put on a Obama mask, placed a broom so it appeared to be sticking out of his rear, and taunted a bull while the announcer asked if anyone wanted to see Obama get it. The crowd roared.

We heard about it. And we decided to go to the fair anyway, be visible as a mixed race couple, and try to effect change simply by not being afraid. We weren't the only mixed race or non-white couple there and we weren't the only ones holding hands.

Not too hard, not too scary, not too unsafe. But certainly more out front that we'd had to be in Boston.

I need to digress for a moment. I believe in the First Amendment, that freedom of speech is vital to a functional democracy. And so, when I heard about the rodeo clown, I was disgusted but didn't object to the parody. This is protected speech. Even if I don't like it, it wasn't illegal.

So, when we drove by some people having a picnic, we knew that they had a right to be there. And we had a right to drive away as fast as we dared when we saw the two large Confederate flags, the shorn hair, the black leather vests. We saw symbols in a language we don't want to know but have to recognize. As we drove away we passed a Methodist church, an Assembly of God church and a Baptist church and we both wondered how many of those people attended these churches.

Once we were far enough away, my sweetheart said, "This is what the Freedom Riders saw. They saw evil and it pursued them past the house of God. And even in those houses of God they wouldn't be safe."

We kept driving through the evening light and I know we both were watching for headlights behind us, even though we really had nothing to fear. The people at the picnic hadn't noticed us among the many cars passing them.

I am not trying to compare what we experienced to what the Freedom Riders did. We remained safe. We remained quiet. We came back to our urban home where we can rant and rave, protest and march, safely.

But it's different here. History is much more present, in the air we breath, in the stickers we see on the backs of cars, in the churches we pass where we might not have found sanctuary. I find myself thinking more and more about the past, as I move into this new part of my life. And I am so grateful for those who have gone before.

I am so grateful and, in seeing things like those flags, the picnic, the kids playing under the watchful eye of parents in black leather, I stand up a little more. I don't need to be as brave as the Freedom Riders, but I, too, have First Amendment protection that I can and will exercise. I'm doing so right now. I just need to learn the language of living in a new place.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

The bravest thing you will see today: Tank Man, Tiananmen, 1989

You might remember the Tiananmen Square protests in 1989. I was in my senior year of high school and I remember wondering what it all meant. I admit, I was largely oblivious; it's only in later years that I have come to understand the bravery of the protesters. In some ways it was a precursor to the Arab Spring uprisings.

Of the many images that came out of those rough days, Tank Man stands alone. I've seen the still images before. Today I saw this video for the first time, a stark 1:13 suggesting that one person can change the world, or at least try.



(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Stand up, speak out

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, the U.S. holiday where we honor the work and legacy of Dr. King. I've noted it before here. It's worth remembering again. Martin Luther King Jr. Day reminds us to take note of the sacrifice required for a free society, of the bravery that it takes to stand up and say, "Enough." It challenges us to remember that this work is not done.

The work of a free society requires more than one day a year or one week of lesson plans, though those are fine starts. It requires the commitment of every individual to decide where their lines in the sand are marked; what is acceptable and what is not; when can their voice make a difference. It requires every individual to be brave enough to stand up and speak out even when they are frightened, even when they don't know if it will make any difference at all. You never know who is watching.

I live in a multicultural neighborhood. Part of why I live here is because I have neighbors who are black and white, asian and latino, Christian, Jewish and Muslim. We don't all speak the same language and have the glorious challenge of learning to live together. My local grocery store has an excellent "ethnic" section because it must, to serve all of its customers. I delight in the variety of goods and faces I find in the market every time I go there.

I was in my local market this weekend picking up the sundries required for every day life. As I walked out I overheard a customer, a white man in his 50s, talking to a store employee, a white man in his early 20s. The older man was talking about how much he disagrees with the policies of our current presidential administration, that he resents his tax money being used to support the poor. I kept walking. He is entitled to his opinions. It was when he said, "I can't get any of that free housing because I'm too white. If I had a baby mamma, maybe then I could cash in," that I turned and walked back.

I asked him, "Do you know how racist that is? Do you know how you sound?" He started sputtering that he wasn't a racist, he just hated the president. I listened until he wound down, then said, "You don't know what you sound like. You don't know whose lives that free housing might save. You don't know who is around you and who might be watching or listening." And I turned and walked away. 

I'm certain I could have done more. I could have had a longer argument, but I wasn't going to change his mind. What I hope is that I gave the young man, the man in his early 20s, a chance to think about something different. The opportunity to remember his school friends, his neighbors who may not look like him. What I hope is that I stopped one racist, for one moment, from spewing out his thoughtless invective over my neighborhood.

What I did is nothing compared with the work of Dr. King. But if we all were to stop, listen to ourselves and those around us, and try to consider the need to see people as people, separate from ethnicity or religion, we might be able to make more compassionate choices and engage in more balanced fiscal responsibility. When we do this en mass the possibilities are astonishing. When we speak out for a more equitable society we help build a world of more possibility.

And that's what I'm doing, not only for Martin Luther King Jr. Day; I'm doing it every day. Please join me.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Flash mob in South Africa

By now you've seen some YouTube video of a flash mode, heard about one on the news or even participated in one. They are a lot of fun, an opportunity for play we sorely need in our busy lives.

Most flash mobs make me smile. This one made me smile and brought tears to my eyes. It's a lovely singing moment in a mall. In South Africa. With black people, white people, all kinds of people, singing and marveling together. This wouldn't have happened 20 years ago (20 years ago I was fasting to help convince my university to divest from South Africa). Ten years ago I don't know if there would have been only wonder on these faces.

Music is powerful. In this context it becomes more. Let us all sing and wonder together.



(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

International Women's Day

Today is the 100th anniversary of International Women’s Day. While it doesn't seem to get much play in the U.S., this internationally recognized event is an important milestone each year. It gives us a chance to look around, see how far we have come and how far we have to go

.

I wanted to take a moment today and do two things for International Women’s Day.

First, as a storyteller I think we become better tellers and listeners when we tell and hear stories of all people, regardless of gender, age or nationality. Here are some of my favorite traditional stories that feature strong women and girls, the ones I can quickly recall off the top of my head. I hope you tell these stories.

• Tatterhood
• Vasilisa the Beautiful
• Baba Yaga
• Clever Manka
• The old women on the road
• Janet
• Scheherzade and her sister, Dinazade

There are so many others. Tatterhood and Other Tales is a good place to start.

Second, I’d like to recognize some of the amazing women in my life, those who have inspired and helped me, set examples for me and set a high bar for my vision. I’m absolutely certain I will omit women who belong here from this list. Please don’t feel slighted if I've forgotten to list you. I am blessed with many amazing women in my life.

My mom, Florence Packer. My step-daughter, Cara Brooks. My mother-in-spirit, Ruth Hill.

My friends, among them Amy, Mary, Christie, Stacy, Serene, Joy, Elsa and many others. Thank you for your kind hearts and good ears. I would be devastated without you.

My storytelling comrades, among them Norah, Andrea, Doria, Elizabeth, Fran, Regi , Marni and so many others. Keep telling, we need your voices.

Those whom I have never met, but inspire me. Sojourner Truth. Mary Oliver. Jeanette Winterson. And many others.

We are stronger when we lean on one another and do so with gratitude. Thank you all.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Telling untold stories

February is Black History Month in the U.S. While I think it's laudable that we have an official reminder to explore the stories of African Americans, it troubles me that we still need a reminder to do so. African American history is a vital part of American history.

What Black History Month really makes me consider is how important it is to tell the untold stories. For so long African American history was relegated to a few minutes in school about slavery and the civil rights movement. By dedicating a month to it we're reminded that we can't so easily disregard the contributions, struggles and lives of millions of people. Each one of those people had a story that was kept from the mainstream for far too long.

When we tell the stories of the unvoiced we change the world. This has to be done carefully and respectfully, of course. It can be a kind of cultural imperialism when someone tells a tale from another culture as if it were their own. But we are all human with similar experiences, so these stories belong to all of us though many come with a context that must be respected. I've written about this here if you're interested in exploring it further. What I'm writing about in this post is how important it is to tell the stories that have been hidden, from the personal to the global.

We each have stories in our lives that we've kept under cover. Stories of love lost, of joy or pain, of unexpected success, of some experience we've thought we should keep secret because it makes us different. When we are brave enough to tell our hidden personal stories we are given the opportunity to realize that we're not so unusual, not so alone and not so disconnected. Others with relatable experiences will respond to that story. They may not say, "That happened to me," but the teller will feel the shift in the air as the audience realizes that this could be their story, too.

Likewise, when we tell previously hidden global stories, we build bridges between cultures and experiences. When we tell the stories of the enslaved and the all-too human slavers, the stories of exodus and homecoming, the stories of genocide and rebuilding, we remind ourselves and our listeners that these experiences are cross-cultural. By shining light on the previously shameful we make those experiences easier to bear, because they become shared experiences.

Don't wait for a sanctioned holiday to explore the hidden tales. Tell one of your hidden stories to a friend. Learn a hidden story from another culture. We build bridges between people and cultures when we share our experiences and listen to each other with open hearts regardless of the time of year.

A story.

When I was in fifth grade the television epic Roots swept the nation. I am Caucasian and attended a largely African American grade school. I watched Roots with great excitement, caught up in the tragedy and triumphs of one family. I wept with shame that slavery played such a prominent role in my country's history, yet as an American Jew, I knew my ancestors hadn't set foot in America when Africans were legally enslaved here. I didn't feel personally responsible for what happened, I knew only that I was responsible for how I treated people now.

One of my classmates confronted me unexpectedly, an African American boy who needed to lash out at a white person for the pain inflicted upon his ancestors. When he told me I was a bad person because white people were slavers, I replied that I was Jew, my grandparents came to this country in the early part of the 20th century so they couldn't have owned slaves here, and besides, Jews know a thing or two about slavery.

He sputtered into quiet, then asked me, "What does being Jewish have to do with slavery?" I told him about Passover. He listened. Then he told me about his great-grandmother who had been a slave. We became friends. I had a tiny glimpse into what it means to be African American in his family, where the memory of slavery is still a stain, a scar, a badge of honor. I had a tiny glimpse into what it means to be black in America. I am still grateful for the lesson and remember it far beyond Black History Month.

I don't know where is now. I don't know if he remembers me and the friendship that grew out of anger and stories. I don't think that matters. What does matter is what he taught me and the friendship that was there when we both needed it. I hope he's happy.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Freedom to Worship

From the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States:

Congress shall make no law respecting the establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

From the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States:

All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

From Senator Joseph Lieberman, on the establishment of the International Religious Freedom Act of 1998, which states that the US may promote religious freedom as part of its public poilicy:

It because of a belief that no government has the right to tell the people how to worship and certainly not the right to discriminate against them or persecute them for the way they chose to express their faith in God.

I love my country. I honor the principles on which it was founded and recognize that they are noble, lofty and subject to interpretation. And I know that fear drives people to do and say things that they might not, if they were thinking from their kinder hearts. But right now? All of the rhetoric rising up from those who object to an Islamic center being built in Lower Manhattan shocks me. I want to believe we are better than that.

I think the quotes above make the argument quite effectively, but I'd like to point out a few things.

1. What greater gesture of reconciliation and peace could there be in these times of increasing fear and incendiary speech than a community center where kids can play, mothers can take a break and yes, people can worship? You can be sure, considering the neighborhood, that any incendiary speech will be noticed and commented upon. Besides, if it were a YMCA, YMHA, Catholic center or any of many other religious centers, this furor would not be. This is a chance to affirm that we are a nation of one built out of many. That we believe in the freedoms we go abroad to enforce.
2. Because this is a Muslim community center, some people with loud voices are assuming all Muslims are radical Muslims and out to cause trouble. This is the same as me assuming all Germans are Nazis, a black person assuming all white people are in the KKK and a white person assuming all black people are thugs. Come on people, grow up.
3. The hatred we are displaying in protesting this community center only adds to the hatred that can be redirected back to us. It's making us look really bad.
4. For those who lost loved ones in the September 11, 2001 attacks, I'm sorry for your loss. It seems as though you have been forced to take on the burden of the country's pain and rage, adding to your own grief. Right now, you have a chance to be a voice for peace that might help prevent someone else from experiencing a similar loss.
5. And lastly? The community center is blocks from Ground Zero. I know it's close. I know it's still Lower Manhattan. But it's not in the middle of the Pit.

It's up to each of us to stand up for common decency and humanity. We all love our children, care about our homes and our futures. Let us be kind and forgiving to each other, support our neighbors dreams and by example, show the world that we are not the demons we sometimes fear we might be.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

List: Worse times than the present

As you may recall, I've become enamored with Curious Lists: A Creative Journal for List-Lovers, a delightful compendium of suggestions for lists. I love lists in general and find them to be not only a great way to organize my life but a wonderful creative trigger. Today I opened to worse times than the present which seems fitting, considering all of the furor you can read in the news on any given day. So, let us consider:

• The US during the McCarthy hearings. Shh, be careful of what you say, who you spend time with. You don't know who might be paying attention.
• And heck, let's not forget the Cultural Revolution, Nazi era Germany, the Rwandan genocide, the genocide of Native Americans, slavery, apartheid and on and on.
• London, during the Plague. Heck, any European city during the Plague.
• The Cretaceous Period. Come on, who really wants to be chased by dinosaurs?
• The various dystopias predicted by Margaret Atwood, Ray Bradbury, Anthony Burgess, Octavia Butler, Terry Gilliam, Aldous Huxley, George Orwell, and others. These are only the ones I can think of off the top of my head and they all terrify me.
• Your worst birthday ever. 
• Your worst break-up. 
• When the dog died.

Alright, so this is a pretty dour list. Does it serve a purpose? I think so. In writing it, I was forced back into a healthier perspective. Things could be worse both politically and personally. I am very lucky that I'm not poor, living as an oppressed person or a voiceless one. Which leads to the most important thing I remembered while writing this list - I do have a voice. And I have a right to speak. Which alone makes this a pretty good time and place in which to live. 

It's just up to me to exercise that right.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

World AIDS Day

Today is World AIDS Day. If you're reading this in the US or another Western country, then it's likely that AIDS and HIV aren't really on your radar anymore. The current medication cocktails have made HIV a condition someone can often live with for years, though their quality of life may be effected. HIV may not seem like the immediate death sentence it once did.

But if you're in Africa or South America or if you're poor or if you or someone you love has HIV then you know that this disease is still a significant and terrible threat. You don't have to be gay, black, white, promiscuous, a drug user or somehow irresponsible to get HIV. Anyone can contract it. You may already know someone who has HIV. I could have it. You could. You don't know unless you get tested. You won't know unless you ask, unless you hear and tell stories.

When I first heard about AIDS I thought That's it, we're all dead. A fatal sexually transmitted disease seemed like the end of humanity. Now I recognize it's far more complex. Among other things it's a call to action.

Act with compassion for all people; this illness inspires prejudice, but it can and does effect anyone. It gives us the opportunity to be our most compassionate selves.

Act with determination; by educating ourselves and others, by funding and supporting new research we can come closer to beating it. Along the way we learn more about ourselves, our bodies and how to live with each other.

Act. Don't be a passive, silent witness to your own life. While you are alive, live so you make the world better for all, whether that means wearing a ribbon, so this disease isn't allowed to become something only "they" get or do something else to connect with the world.

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer