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Since living in Cali I have been in more damn circles than I can shake that proverbial stick at.
Circles with Native Americans (I was the only one in that circle who was a descendant of slaves, I was honored to be invited.) Circles on a mountain in Southern Cal with teens that didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Circles with Black fathers that cared for and loved their children enough to come to Stonehurst Elementary school at 8:30 in the morning to talk about their babies. Circles with women in Medford, Oregon that worked in the potato fields who needed health care. Circles of pregnant women 24 years ago bonding over birth and labor. I have sat in more circles than I care to remember, but this circle was unexpected.
Job seekers, new skill builders, the over forty crew redefining themselves for a workplace that doesn’t exist any more, and a paycheck that has been long gone. In a circle we sat (me cross-legged on the floor, thinking not another circle) that happened to be all very grown women, all of colour. What was our common denominator? (Besides unemployment) “We’re just tryin’ to make somethin’ out of nothin” one circle member stated. But, a few minutes into the conversation our strongest bond appeared to be that we all seem to stand solidly in the Spirit of mustard seed faith, with many life journey’s full of stories.
2011 ain’t for punks nor sissies. It’s knowing to whom you belong and being determined to be one of the last ones standing blossoming into a brand new you, defined by you.
One woman in the circle began to tell her story, slowly, deliberately, with a tremble in her voice. One 8 1/2 x 11 sheet of white paper telling how one should respond in a job interview “triggered” a flashback to her corporate days. This obviously was not a good memory, in her face she relived a moment that had ugly written all over it. I think all of us wanted to take that walk backwards into that memory with her, and slap the devil out of whoever that demon was that caused this beautiful woman to weep.
The circle became respectfully silent. We held our thoughts, our own ugly moments in our minds eye, remembering work day pains that lay dormant under the surface waiting to be exposed. As if it were a spring rain in Michigan, soft kind words began to drizzle out of the mouths of the other women folks, telling their stories, their truth. I slid closer to the weeping one to give her comfort, while our teacher passed her the box of kleenex (Kleenex boxes are to circles what peanut butter and jelly is to sandwiches) the only Latina in the group lifted her eyes looking directly at the wounded worker and gave her authentic voice to these troubling times. The feminine harmony of “I know that’s right,” and “Girrrrl, you ain’t said nothin’ but a word” with a little of, “Lord have mercy” tossed in created an environment of safety, personal reflection and the knowledge for one that she was not and is not…alone.
As women often do, we found laughter moving its way up from our bellies into the atmosphere. Yes, we did exactly what Stella did – we let the air out. Relieved that we could take madness and make merry for a moment. What else could we do?
Me, I left the circle that evening headed for the gym remembering the perversity of my last days on a job I despised. Redefining oneself may be exhausting, but I know I would rather be doing this than being a square peg in a round hole.