"No, where is your FAMILY from?"

St. Patrick’s Day has never been a four-star event at my house. For starters, we’re not Irish, so besides the basic “you’d better wear green or you’ll get pinched” policy, we don’t really do too much. Actually, I even have a hard time wearing green because it feels a little bit like false advertising (well that and I don’t own any green clothes.) Coulter was very excited, though, about getting to wear green. He came out Wednesday morning in a pair of green linen pants with a green Hulk t-shirt that lights up. Beyond this, though, he knew nothing about St. Patrick’s Day, which I suppose is another good reason to have him in pre-school. Whether it’s Bible stories or learning to spell his last name, Ms. Kim usually makes up for our shortcomings. So it came as no surprise that after a morning with Ms. Kim, he was full-versed in leprechaun folklore. “They’re little stinkers who mess up everything so you can’t find the goooold.” He was so caught up in all the fun that I felt guilty for not having done more to help celebrate.


My guilt started to grow even more when I began to ponder the idea that perhaps we really are Irish and I just don’t know about it. The truth is I have no idea if my ancestors came from Ireland or Germany or England (wait, didn’t they all come from England?) Anyway, I don’t think I’m alone in this. Ask most people from the South where their family is from and they will answer “The South.” Southerners are very proud of their Southern heritage. I remember taking a multicultural music class in grad school and on the first day the professor was, I suppose, looking to set up the multicultural theme when he looked at me as asked, “Where are you from?” I said, “Arkansas.” He said, “No. Where is your FAMILY from” I said, “Arkansas, we’re all from Arkansas.” Sensing he was getting no-where, he moved on to other students and they were quick with their answers. “Sweden, Germany, Norway.” It wouldn’t have mattered though, because even if I had understood the question, the only thing I know about my family is that they are from Arkansas.

My husband, on the other hand knows practically everything about his family history, down to the boat ride that brought one sister to America and left one sister in Sweden. He found his Swedish relatives over 20 years ago and has visited them regularly. Coulter will grow up knowing his Swedish “cousins” and Swedish history and that’s pretty cool even if they don’t have leprechauns.

It’s a little hard to explain because family history is important to me, it’s just that my knowledge of it only goes back to, well, Arkansas. Also important to me are family names. My children are both named after family which is one reason I go all “psycho mom” when someone tries to shorten their names. My Mother’s maiden name is Coulter, not Colt. Emma Claire is named after her Grandfather, Claude Claire and so it doesn’t make sense if you leave out the Claire. (She also had a great, great grandmother named Emma.) I truly don’t know why I did this to myself because for the next, well, forever, I’ll be adding Claire to everyone’s Emma. Seriously, I don’t understand how hard it can be. It’s three syllables….no different really than Emily. (Sorry, I digress.)But why does it make me so crazy? It’s because we named them after our family; after our ancestors and that’s important to me. (My very young and very much alive Mother is probably not going to appreciate being called an ancestor, but you get the idea.)

So, having said all that, I’m not sure why learning more about my ancestors has never been a priority. I do know that my Mammaw’s Grandmother was Native American (and yet to further prove my point about not knowing our history, I cannot find a single relative that knows which tribe. Our best guess is Apache) and I know that my Great, Great Grandfather was a slave owner. I know that when slavery was abolished the slaves that had served on the Coulter farm took our family name. My aunt Ida used to regularly attend the “Black Coulter” family reunions. Do I think my Grandfather was a racist? No. But even if he was, my parents weren’t racist and they didn’t raise me to be one. The truth is, I’ve always wondered if I researched my history and it led back to say, Germany, what would I find? Ancestors that help hide the Jews or ones that help to try and erase them from our history. Helen Keller said, “There is no king who has not had a slave among his ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his”

I am grateful to those who have gone before me and I hope that it some small way I might honor them, if not with historical knowledge, than with the life that I am living now; that I might live with the knowledge that someday someone might study me and I want them to find a legacy of virtues and excellence. So, while it may not be popular or politically correct, the truth is, I’m much less concerned with who my Great, Great Grandfather was than with who his great, great, great grandson and daughter are going to become (which is not exactly a quote, but a “truth” borrowed from Abraham Lincoln.)

Two weeks from today is Easter Sunday. The birth, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ; now THAT is something my family will celebrate. We will be doing it from two different continents, though. Coulter and his Dad are flying to Sweden and, well, you’ll just never guess where Emma Claire and I will be!

I was raised in a small town in Southwest Arkansas that, at the time, had one red light, which we (appropriately enough) called “THE red light.” It’s a place where having to wait for more than two cars at the 4 way stop is considered rush hour. And I can assure you, that to this day my Dad will do everything he can to avoid rush hour at the Courthouse Square. It’s a place where you don’t really ever have to take your children into a clinic, because you can just call your family doctor for a phone diagnosis. To this day I feel so out of place at the pediatricians office….like somehow we’re “above” being there….trust me, I know how that sounds. It’s a place where people know your business and they care about your business. A place where you can ask pretty much anyone for help and assume they are going to give it to you and that brings me to my “you can take the girl out of the small town but you can’t take the small town out of the girl” story.

One afternoon a couple of weeks ago, as the temperatures rose into the 30s and the sun was shining I had an overwhelming need to just be outside so I decided to go for a run. I wasn’t even sure if it was possible because there was so much snow and ice still on the ground, and yet I know of lots of people (crazy people, of course) who run outside all year long so I decided to give it a try. Coulter promptly told me that if I left him home alone, the police would arrest me (which is a whole other blog and please let me assure you I wasn’t going to leave him home alone!) So, I dusted off the jogging stroller, bundled up Emma Claire, sent Coulter to the neighbor’s (because, well, a 4 yr. old riding a bike on snow and ice seemed like a bad idea) and we were off. Emma Claire loved it. You could almost feel the vitamin D seeping into our skin and reviving our winter weary souls. It was perfect until, BOOM! Somewhere toward the end of the 2nd mile, unbeknownst to me, Emma Claire dropped her pacifier and within minutes we were in crisis mode. I could just feel the judgment oozing out as people drove by, turning their heads to get a closer look at the neglected child who was crying and obviously freezing and miserable. I expected at any minute someone from social services would show up and start questioning me. I didn’t know what to do except run faster when suddenly the Gas Stop came into view so I decided to get her a sucker. After all, if there is anything better than a pacifier, it’s a pacifier made out of sugar! I had no money, (of course I had no money, I mean, if I’d had money this would hardly be a story worth telling,) but I had something better; I had a screaming child and a small town confidence that the Gas Stop people would do the right thing. And they did.

Some of you might think it’s strange to walk into a store without money and expect any service. And, you would probably laugh if I told you that I once asked the Hy Vee manager to hold my groceries in their fridge until after church because I had run out of time to get them home…. which he did. Another “small town quirk” that baffles my husband is that we (read: My mother!) used to tape coins to our mail in lieu of postage. I was almost in college and attending piano camp in Georgia before I realized that not using stamps is frowned upon. And I only discovered it then because, strangely enough, none of my mail reached its Arkansas destination.

The truth is Sioux Falls bears little resemblance to the small town where I grew up. But in the 10 years (gulp!) that we’ve lived here, I think we have built a city within a city; a “small-ish” town where people know me and they know my family. At the end of the day, that’s what I need for my children; a community that knows and a community that cares (well, that and a family doctor that doesn’t require us to wait in the lobby.) The Gas Stop dude cared for us (o.k., some might suggest he was actually scared of the crazy moneyless mom,) but I’m going to go with the caring. For that afternoon I was able to pretend that I was living in a small town again and for that, I’m grateful.

Welcome!

Just after the New Year, I heard about a website that was encouraging people to buck the standard New Year’s resolution list and come up with one word instead. One word that would describe what you wanted for your life in the new year. It was so bizarre, but the word that immediately came forth was, illuminate. This was so weird to me because that's not even a word that I use. I mean who goes around saying, illuminate. I'm not even sure I can use it in a sentence and yet as the discussion continued I could not get that word out of my head. And so that's my word for the year. Illuminate. Actually it reminds me of one of my favorite verses from the book of Matthew. I know we're not supposed to take scripture out of context, but I think God will be o.k. with it, so I'm going to go for it. Matt 5:16 says, "Let you light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven." I think my Mother started reciting this verse to my siblings and I while we were still in the womb. This verse was a real downer for me at various stages of my life because who can knowingly make wrong choices when your Mother springs that verse on you as you leave the house. "Be the sweetest one....let your light shine...."

In truth (and not just to inflict guilt) my parents raised us to let our lights shine. They raised us to pursue excellence. They raised us to BE excellent. And yet, as I venture cautiously into the whole parenthood thing, it seems that even with all the talk of freedoms and choices, even with a culture of ambition and limitless possibilities, we don't always encourage excellence. Sometimes it seems as if we encourage “same-ness.” Last week I was trying to explain my feelings about this to a friend and she called it the tall poppy syndrome. I googled it....it's a real thing! Basically, we feel better about ourselves if no one rises to a level above our own. This is so sad to me. I want my children to be humble and gracious but I also want them to know it's o.k. to shine.

My least favorite saying in the entire universe is "You are all winners." No you’re not. If Coulter's team doesn't score the most points then he is on the losing side and I want him to know how to handle that. On the other hand, if he wins 1st place in a debating competition, (which I’m fairly confident is a good possibility given our “debates” at home) then I want him to receive that recognition and be proud of his hard work.

“These little lights of mine” are obviously Coulter and Emma Claire. They are also the many, many children, students, friends and family that light up my life each day. Welcome to the blog…may we go on an illuminating journey together!