Nina Foxx's Blog, page 2
June 23, 2019
June 16, 2019
May 22, 2019
May 14, 2019
May 7, 2019
May 6, 2019
March 1, 2019
August 29, 2018
Memed--or The Further Adventures of Kidult.
My daughter is back and school. I’m proud of her, but I miss her. I chuckle as I write this because as much as I miss her and couldn’t wait for her to get home, I couldn’t’ wait for her to go back. Certainly, there is wonder in watching a girl grow into womanhood. Just as I was filled with pride when she took her first steps, I am happy for her and scream (inside) “I did that!” as she conquers the challenges in her life. Alas, there is also pain in watching someone as strong-willed as my daughter ( where’d she get that from!) grow and learn to accept and love herself as she blossoms into womanhood—in my space!
We text every day (at the very least). Sometimes, we call each other. She calls for advice, to chat or just to have an ear to listen as she works out her problems. Our texts are like an on-going conversation—until I make her mad and she stops responding.
I challenge her and find that I can’t help myself. It’s what I do. The other day, though, I was beyond myself as I review one particular text string. I couldn’t decide if I’d turned into my father, or if I’d become one of those test memes, you know what I mean, the ones that are stories and are full of the crazy things your helicopter mom sends you? Yeah, that was me. I realize that as my child grows into her own separate person, much of it was my attempt to reach out and reman connected to her. I’m writing it down so I can remember not to do this in the future. (Not really. It was too much fun!) Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Me: How are you on books?
Her: Not good.
I don’t have any.
My card (debit) is frozen.
Me: Why? Call USAA.
I’ve already told her this this day before.
Her: Can you take my money and buy the books for me?
Translation: I don’t really have the money and don’t want to spend what I do have.
Me: Call USAA First. You send me a list.
Do you know why your card is locked?
Translation: I’ve already looked and know you don’t have money.
Her: No.
Translation: Of course, I do but I ain’t admitting it to you.
Me: Or do you have the card you lost and had to
replace on file at the bookstore?
Translation: All right. I’ll play.
What did you choose as a minor?
She doesn’t answer me.
(Later)
Me: Did you talk to USAA?
(Still later)
She still doesn’t’ answer me.
(next day)
Me: I see a refund to OUR account on the 21st for
27.49, but I see no books being
bought. You have
68 dollars.
WHAT IS YOUR PLAN?
Her: Well, my card is still frozen. I think they
thought the 27 dollars was fraud since I’m in Atlanta now.
Me:Call them!
Her: I honestly don’t have a plan I guess I will
Just wait until September.
Translation: Pobrecita me. Help me, Mommy!
Me: You can talk to them through the app.
You don’t even have to talk to a person.
Not acceptable.
Talk to your father about giving you money
or give me the book names and I will buy them,
but I will use your money that I would
give you on the 15tth.
This is WHY YOU WERE SAVING BOOK MONEY!!
Her: I did save money.
But I literally have two books each class.
Me: Where’d you save it? You knew 100 dollars wasn’t enough.
There have been no declined
transactions on your account in the
past seven days.
Are you sure the card is frozen?
I Know you can get at least one book with 68$.
Her: I tried to buy books on Amazon.
Wasn’t working.
Yeah, I guess I can.
Me: Call USAA.
Today.
Her: OK
Me: They didn’t decline.
Are you sure you entered it correctly?
When the dust settles, you need to look into a job.
There are probably some you can do remotely.
Her: Face palm emoji. Twice
Like WHAT Mom?
Me: Amazon.
Her: I’m taking psychometrics,
Bio psych of women and
Brain and Behavior…
Me: Greta just got hired there, WFH,
flexible hours 20 hours per week or weekends.
Her: When am I gonna do work, Mom??
Me: Weekends. A waitress.
Telling fortunes, IDK.
Her: I have 9 AMs and I don’t end until 4.
Me: There’s always weekends
And one day a week, 6-10.
Her: Double face palm emoji
Me: If not, I still need to see scholarship
and internship apps, one per week
Her: OKOKOKOKOK
Can we talk about this another day besides Friday?
Me: Huh? Why?
You going out?
Instead of to work?
Her: No, I’m sleeping.
Or trying to.
Me: You could be working.
LOL.
Her: Bye,
Your stressful.
I’m not even going out, tonight.
Me: Welcome to my club,
And its YOU’RE.
LOL
Her: I don’t think you actually know how hard this is.
I need to rest on the weekend.
My brain needs rest
I be so tired.
Me: Say what now? I was a double major in psych
And Chem..and worked all four years of college.
So I do know.
Her: YOU rest on the weekends.
Me: Do you even know me?
I worked at Wendy’s as a hostess for a year,
The closing shift.
I would get off at 1AM and have an 8AM
Class that I had to commute an hour in one direction for.
I was so tired I would sleep through the
first hour IN the classroom.
Then I would work on Thursdays
6-10pm at a different job and
all day Saturday and Sunday. I was a
cheerleader and I had classes.
And there is no rest on the
weekends, Meetings and shit ain’t rest.
Her: I’ll look for a job but when my grades are bad
Don’t @ me.
Bye Bye Letters.
Me: (Alice from Brady Bunch rolling her eyes gif)
Her: I’m not Superwoman
I am a mess
A mess with no books.
Me: I wonder now if that summer job you
thought wasn’t worth it, might
have been worth it for the books!
I love you!
Her:(blank face emoji)
I can’t make this stuff up!
We text every day (at the very least). Sometimes, we call each other. She calls for advice, to chat or just to have an ear to listen as she works out her problems. Our texts are like an on-going conversation—until I make her mad and she stops responding.
I challenge her and find that I can’t help myself. It’s what I do. The other day, though, I was beyond myself as I review one particular text string. I couldn’t decide if I’d turned into my father, or if I’d become one of those test memes, you know what I mean, the ones that are stories and are full of the crazy things your helicopter mom sends you? Yeah, that was me. I realize that as my child grows into her own separate person, much of it was my attempt to reach out and reman connected to her. I’m writing it down so I can remember not to do this in the future. (Not really. It was too much fun!) Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Me: How are you on books?
Her: Not good.
I don’t have any.
My card (debit) is frozen.
Me: Why? Call USAA.
I’ve already told her this this day before.
Her: Can you take my money and buy the books for me?
Translation: I don’t really have the money and don’t want to spend what I do have.
Me: Call USAA First. You send me a list.
Do you know why your card is locked?
Translation: I’ve already looked and know you don’t have money.
Her: No.
Translation: Of course, I do but I ain’t admitting it to you.
Me: Or do you have the card you lost and had to
replace on file at the bookstore?
Translation: All right. I’ll play.
What did you choose as a minor?
She doesn’t answer me.
(Later)
Me: Did you talk to USAA?
(Still later)
She still doesn’t’ answer me.
(next day)
Me: I see a refund to OUR account on the 21st for
27.49, but I see no books being
bought. You have
68 dollars.
WHAT IS YOUR PLAN?
Her: Well, my card is still frozen. I think they
thought the 27 dollars was fraud since I’m in Atlanta now.
Me:Call them!
Her: I honestly don’t have a plan I guess I will
Just wait until September.
Translation: Pobrecita me. Help me, Mommy!
Me: You can talk to them through the app.
You don’t even have to talk to a person.
Not acceptable.
Talk to your father about giving you money
or give me the book names and I will buy them,
but I will use your money that I would
give you on the 15tth.
This is WHY YOU WERE SAVING BOOK MONEY!!
Her: I did save money.
But I literally have two books each class.
Me: Where’d you save it? You knew 100 dollars wasn’t enough.
There have been no declined
transactions on your account in the
past seven days.
Are you sure the card is frozen?
I Know you can get at least one book with 68$.
Her: I tried to buy books on Amazon.
Wasn’t working.
Yeah, I guess I can.
Me: Call USAA.
Today.
Her: OK
Me: They didn’t decline.
Are you sure you entered it correctly?
When the dust settles, you need to look into a job.
There are probably some you can do remotely.
Her: Face palm emoji. Twice
Like WHAT Mom?
Me: Amazon.
Her: I’m taking psychometrics,
Bio psych of women and
Brain and Behavior…
Me: Greta just got hired there, WFH,
flexible hours 20 hours per week or weekends.
Her: When am I gonna do work, Mom??
Me: Weekends. A waitress.
Telling fortunes, IDK.
Her: I have 9 AMs and I don’t end until 4.
Me: There’s always weekends
And one day a week, 6-10.
Her: Double face palm emoji
Me: If not, I still need to see scholarship
and internship apps, one per week
Her: OKOKOKOKOK
Can we talk about this another day besides Friday?
Me: Huh? Why?
You going out?
Instead of to work?
Her: No, I’m sleeping.
Or trying to.
Me: You could be working.
LOL.
Her: Bye,
Your stressful.
I’m not even going out, tonight.
Me: Welcome to my club,
And its YOU’RE.
LOL
Her: I don’t think you actually know how hard this is.
I need to rest on the weekend.
My brain needs rest
I be so tired.
Me: Say what now? I was a double major in psych
And Chem..and worked all four years of college.
So I do know.
Her: YOU rest on the weekends.
Me: Do you even know me?
I worked at Wendy’s as a hostess for a year,
The closing shift.
I would get off at 1AM and have an 8AM
Class that I had to commute an hour in one direction for.
I was so tired I would sleep through the
first hour IN the classroom.
Then I would work on Thursdays
6-10pm at a different job and
all day Saturday and Sunday. I was a
cheerleader and I had classes.
And there is no rest on the
weekends, Meetings and shit ain’t rest.
Her: I’ll look for a job but when my grades are bad
Don’t @ me.
Bye Bye Letters.
Me: (Alice from Brady Bunch rolling her eyes gif)
Her: I’m not Superwoman
I am a mess
A mess with no books.
Me: I wonder now if that summer job you
thought wasn’t worth it, might
have been worth it for the books!
I love you!
Her:(blank face emoji)
I can’t make this stuff up!
April 23, 2018
Sarees over Sneakers
This past week, I challenged myself to not slip into any pair of jeans. Instead, I was going to explore the side of my closet that holds all the dresses and skirts. As it turns out, I have a lot, and I only seem to wear them to church or when I am going out to somewhere other than work. Since I keep telling myself that if I haven’t worn it in a year it has to go, it makes no sense to have a bunch of things that are about to turn into closet-pumpkins. Rather than throw them out, I’d decided to attempt to wear them, and hence reset their termination clock.
While contemplating what shoes went with my skirt, for some reason, I remembered my fourth grade teacher. She ‘d worn dresses every day, or at least, a sort of dress. I can’t remember her name at all, or the details of her face, but what I do remember is that she’d worn a saree every day of the school year.
Her sarees were beautiful. And flowy. They were flowy and flowery in the winter, when other people were wrapped in layers of various kinds of knits in the dark hues of winter. They were flowy and flowery in the spring. Every day. That wasn’t odd to my fourth grade self, not even in the way that a new arrival to a northern state wearing a summer dress in the winter is odd to me now. In fact, I didn’t realize that she was dressing differently at all, not even when we noticed that when she turned around, you could sort of see her white skin peeking out in the space on the side where the saree blouse met the fabric of what becomes the skirt when you wrap it around your body.
It wasn’t until maybe, May (the school year ended in June) that I realized that this woman wearing a saree was even different. At this time, in New York, you could probably have found several women in sarees, maybe not in 1970s Flushing, Queens, though. At that time, you were probably more apt to find men sporting yarmulkes and prayer cords, but there were certainly some sarees somewhere else in Gotham.
What made my teacher’s saree different was not necessarily the saree, but her. She was a blond-haired white woman from the Midwest that liked to wear the sarees because she thought they were beautiful and to her, comfortable. She had never even been to India. I know because I asked her.
Back then, she was just odd, I suppose, but today, she might be accused of cultural appropriation or something like that because she didn’t wear the teacher-uniform or try to conform to what everyone else was wearing at all.
I am a techie. The techie uniform consists of jeans, tee shorts, and since I am in the Pacific Northwest, if not sneakers, then rugged boots. Grunge. Just writing it makes my skin crawl. Not me at all.
Even when I am not on my save-the-dress kick, I won’t wear sneakers to work. Sneakers are for sneaking. Or working out. I’m definitely a shoe girl. And dresses, well, no one wears them. My outfit this day consisted on a long midi skirt, with slits up both sides and a high waist, paired with a simple white tee, a long white duster sweater with flutter sleeves, and well, red sling back shoes with a moderate, but not too high heel, because why not?
By my third day of jean avoidance, I already knew that I would be as much of an oddity clicking up and down the halls of the high-rise paragon of technology I work in,as my saree-clad fourth grade teacher was as she floated through the halls of my elementary school. For the first two days of the week, I had garnered all types of comments and compliments directed towards my outfit. Several people asked if I were interviewing, others saying “OOH, fancy!” and other such comments. The exposed flash of flesh that were my legs had been a surprise and an enigma to many. No one else wore dresses and heels, especially not at the same time. Was I a perpetrator of a sort of cultural appropriation, too? Was I a tech worker stealing the culture of a better-dressed bank worker or maybe, someone from the finance department?
There are a lot or complaints about the lack of women in tech companies and the one I work in is no exception, but once hired, it is almost as if both sexes try to blend together The clothes are almost interhanhageable. The same jeans with the same tee shirts, often ones with some catchy slogan on the front. The norm seems to be that attire should convey that you are either too smart or too rich to care about your clothes. As I tried on yet another pair of clothes, I embraced that I was a culture buster.
I made sure my bare legs were sufficiently moisturized and remembered working in an office after college where pantyhose were required and no opened shoes were allowed. This place was not that. I rebelled then, not wanting to wear hose (I do not anymore). Save the hose, I now lean in the other direction, slipping into dressier clothing. Now, I was just old-fashioned, a throw back to when dress-down happened only on Friday and not every day of the week.
I might stick out and my high heels might seem out of place to some, but like my teacher, I am absolutely comfortable. Just what is comfort though? For some it means those sneakers and boots with their favorite jeans, for others, it means sarees in a world of western dress. For me, comfort means clothes that make me feel good about my day and as if I need to strut down the hall with my head high, aided by the imaginary string that comes out of your head and pulls you up towards the ceiling that they tell you about in dance class. Comfort means feeling proud that I took two extra minutes (and not even that because a dress is actually a grown up onesie), to put my appearance together. That extra minute helps me to know that if I stand in front of a room, I appear put together enough that I am believable, stylish, powerful and good at what I do, not the imposter that I sometimes feel I am. Comfortable means feeling good in my skin and that what I choose to put over it reflects how I feel inside.
I work in a tech job, in a city know for grunge, but in a design organization. People find a way to express themselves here. Some paint, some wear jewelry they make themselves. Everyone seems to create something on the side that is not so related to the job that pays the majority of their bills.
I write.
I wear shoes.
I create with my fashion.
While contemplating what shoes went with my skirt, for some reason, I remembered my fourth grade teacher. She ‘d worn dresses every day, or at least, a sort of dress. I can’t remember her name at all, or the details of her face, but what I do remember is that she’d worn a saree every day of the school year.
Her sarees were beautiful. And flowy. They were flowy and flowery in the winter, when other people were wrapped in layers of various kinds of knits in the dark hues of winter. They were flowy and flowery in the spring. Every day. That wasn’t odd to my fourth grade self, not even in the way that a new arrival to a northern state wearing a summer dress in the winter is odd to me now. In fact, I didn’t realize that she was dressing differently at all, not even when we noticed that when she turned around, you could sort of see her white skin peeking out in the space on the side where the saree blouse met the fabric of what becomes the skirt when you wrap it around your body.
It wasn’t until maybe, May (the school year ended in June) that I realized that this woman wearing a saree was even different. At this time, in New York, you could probably have found several women in sarees, maybe not in 1970s Flushing, Queens, though. At that time, you were probably more apt to find men sporting yarmulkes and prayer cords, but there were certainly some sarees somewhere else in Gotham.
What made my teacher’s saree different was not necessarily the saree, but her. She was a blond-haired white woman from the Midwest that liked to wear the sarees because she thought they were beautiful and to her, comfortable. She had never even been to India. I know because I asked her.
Back then, she was just odd, I suppose, but today, she might be accused of cultural appropriation or something like that because she didn’t wear the teacher-uniform or try to conform to what everyone else was wearing at all.
I am a techie. The techie uniform consists of jeans, tee shorts, and since I am in the Pacific Northwest, if not sneakers, then rugged boots. Grunge. Just writing it makes my skin crawl. Not me at all.
Even when I am not on my save-the-dress kick, I won’t wear sneakers to work. Sneakers are for sneaking. Or working out. I’m definitely a shoe girl. And dresses, well, no one wears them. My outfit this day consisted on a long midi skirt, with slits up both sides and a high waist, paired with a simple white tee, a long white duster sweater with flutter sleeves, and well, red sling back shoes with a moderate, but not too high heel, because why not?
By my third day of jean avoidance, I already knew that I would be as much of an oddity clicking up and down the halls of the high-rise paragon of technology I work in,as my saree-clad fourth grade teacher was as she floated through the halls of my elementary school. For the first two days of the week, I had garnered all types of comments and compliments directed towards my outfit. Several people asked if I were interviewing, others saying “OOH, fancy!” and other such comments. The exposed flash of flesh that were my legs had been a surprise and an enigma to many. No one else wore dresses and heels, especially not at the same time. Was I a perpetrator of a sort of cultural appropriation, too? Was I a tech worker stealing the culture of a better-dressed bank worker or maybe, someone from the finance department?
There are a lot or complaints about the lack of women in tech companies and the one I work in is no exception, but once hired, it is almost as if both sexes try to blend together The clothes are almost interhanhageable. The same jeans with the same tee shirts, often ones with some catchy slogan on the front. The norm seems to be that attire should convey that you are either too smart or too rich to care about your clothes. As I tried on yet another pair of clothes, I embraced that I was a culture buster.
I made sure my bare legs were sufficiently moisturized and remembered working in an office after college where pantyhose were required and no opened shoes were allowed. This place was not that. I rebelled then, not wanting to wear hose (I do not anymore). Save the hose, I now lean in the other direction, slipping into dressier clothing. Now, I was just old-fashioned, a throw back to when dress-down happened only on Friday and not every day of the week.
I might stick out and my high heels might seem out of place to some, but like my teacher, I am absolutely comfortable. Just what is comfort though? For some it means those sneakers and boots with their favorite jeans, for others, it means sarees in a world of western dress. For me, comfort means clothes that make me feel good about my day and as if I need to strut down the hall with my head high, aided by the imaginary string that comes out of your head and pulls you up towards the ceiling that they tell you about in dance class. Comfort means feeling proud that I took two extra minutes (and not even that because a dress is actually a grown up onesie), to put my appearance together. That extra minute helps me to know that if I stand in front of a room, I appear put together enough that I am believable, stylish, powerful and good at what I do, not the imposter that I sometimes feel I am. Comfortable means feeling good in my skin and that what I choose to put over it reflects how I feel inside.
I work in a tech job, in a city know for grunge, but in a design organization. People find a way to express themselves here. Some paint, some wear jewelry they make themselves. Everyone seems to create something on the side that is not so related to the job that pays the majority of their bills.
I write.
I wear shoes.
I create with my fashion.
January 1, 2018
There is no Try
I’ve never been fond on New Year’s resolutions, and hence don’t make them. If you want to start or change, just do it. Or at least try to; it doesn’t matter what month it is. I do believe that January is a good time for reflection (but I suppose any day will do).
This afternoon, I found myself driving down the street in my car that is new enough to be considered a Christmas present even though I started driving it before Christmas, and was keenly aware that tomorrow I have to go back to work. Tired of mumble rap and other music with its misogynist lyrics, I had Bob Marley playing in the background. I’d enjoyed the time off at the end of the year, using it to pause and spend time with family but I didn’t for one minute begrudge that I have to go to work tomorrow. In my daytime life, I have a great job that many would consider sexy and amazing. I thought of my father and how proud he would be of me (of course this is in the movie inside my head; he’s been dead almost 25 years. There is always the off chance that he would have become someone else in his old age, disappointed in me for participating in the capitalist process, but whatever.). I do not believe he could have imagined what I do, nor how I am compensated.
He didn’t go to college until he was a senior citizen. He never had to the opportunity or ability to go before then. When he was in high school, there was a war going on and I’m not sure if he was drafted, or if he volunteered to go fight WWII.
My father never complained about this time he spent in the military, instead he told me stories about Germany, all glamorous, and then his narrative jumped to how he had earned a Purple Heart. When he came home, he started having kids and got married and instead of being a carefree college student as I had been, he had a growing family to take care of. He went from solider to civil servant with a bout with Scarlet Fever in the middle, and never looked back. He went to work in snowstorms and other crisis, often at odd hours and I never heard him complain about having to do so. These were great achievements for a man born on sharecropper land.
I changed the station in my car by touching a screen. Unlike in my father’s car, the station changed instantly, with no dial and no eight-track player that mangled the tape. (There is no place in my car to even play a CD). For years, he’d driven a patrol/detective’s sedan, and when I was in it, we sang songs so I’m not sure what the radio did or if there was even one in there, but when he retired he had a caddy with that eight track player.
Daddy had been so proud of his eight-track, even though I’m not sure he owned more than one album. He’d played Bob Marley over and over until the car ate the tape, and when it did, we all had been devastated. Time and technology changed, and I can now summon Bob Marley with a button press and a simple voice request. He would have loved that.
The sounds of No Woman No Cry almost brought me to tears on this day, not because it made me remember my father, but because it made me aware of the leaps and bounds my family has made across the generations. My grandmother left everything she knew behind to move to New York with her small son and do Day Work, and that was a good job for her, a Black Woman. Her only child, my father, joined the military, fought in two wars and then became a civil servant and peace officer; both good jobs for him, a Black Man with no college degree. Because of what they did, I can do BOTH of my jobs, live where I live and drive what I drive, all excellent (Not just good) for a person, man or woman, of any ilk.
A New Years’ resolution how we tend to think of them would be too shortsighted and self-centered. Instead of a New Year’s resolution, I feel a responsibility, to both those who came before me and my children, and their children yet to come. I do not resolve to give up anything, instead, I will endeavor to Lean in and learn so that I may grow and the opportunities yet to come will be revealed to me. I do not know if my father and grandmother thought of those who might come after them when they went to that job they may not have liked every day without complaint, but they did. They may not have had that luxury, but because of them, I do. My opportunities are because of what was done for me, and my actions will impact those who follow.
This afternoon, I found myself driving down the street in my car that is new enough to be considered a Christmas present even though I started driving it before Christmas, and was keenly aware that tomorrow I have to go back to work. Tired of mumble rap and other music with its misogynist lyrics, I had Bob Marley playing in the background. I’d enjoyed the time off at the end of the year, using it to pause and spend time with family but I didn’t for one minute begrudge that I have to go to work tomorrow. In my daytime life, I have a great job that many would consider sexy and amazing. I thought of my father and how proud he would be of me (of course this is in the movie inside my head; he’s been dead almost 25 years. There is always the off chance that he would have become someone else in his old age, disappointed in me for participating in the capitalist process, but whatever.). I do not believe he could have imagined what I do, nor how I am compensated.
He didn’t go to college until he was a senior citizen. He never had to the opportunity or ability to go before then. When he was in high school, there was a war going on and I’m not sure if he was drafted, or if he volunteered to go fight WWII.
My father never complained about this time he spent in the military, instead he told me stories about Germany, all glamorous, and then his narrative jumped to how he had earned a Purple Heart. When he came home, he started having kids and got married and instead of being a carefree college student as I had been, he had a growing family to take care of. He went from solider to civil servant with a bout with Scarlet Fever in the middle, and never looked back. He went to work in snowstorms and other crisis, often at odd hours and I never heard him complain about having to do so. These were great achievements for a man born on sharecropper land.
I changed the station in my car by touching a screen. Unlike in my father’s car, the station changed instantly, with no dial and no eight-track player that mangled the tape. (There is no place in my car to even play a CD). For years, he’d driven a patrol/detective’s sedan, and when I was in it, we sang songs so I’m not sure what the radio did or if there was even one in there, but when he retired he had a caddy with that eight track player.
Daddy had been so proud of his eight-track, even though I’m not sure he owned more than one album. He’d played Bob Marley over and over until the car ate the tape, and when it did, we all had been devastated. Time and technology changed, and I can now summon Bob Marley with a button press and a simple voice request. He would have loved that.
The sounds of No Woman No Cry almost brought me to tears on this day, not because it made me remember my father, but because it made me aware of the leaps and bounds my family has made across the generations. My grandmother left everything she knew behind to move to New York with her small son and do Day Work, and that was a good job for her, a Black Woman. Her only child, my father, joined the military, fought in two wars and then became a civil servant and peace officer; both good jobs for him, a Black Man with no college degree. Because of what they did, I can do BOTH of my jobs, live where I live and drive what I drive, all excellent (Not just good) for a person, man or woman, of any ilk.
A New Years’ resolution how we tend to think of them would be too shortsighted and self-centered. Instead of a New Year’s resolution, I feel a responsibility, to both those who came before me and my children, and their children yet to come. I do not resolve to give up anything, instead, I will endeavor to Lean in and learn so that I may grow and the opportunities yet to come will be revealed to me. I do not know if my father and grandmother thought of those who might come after them when they went to that job they may not have liked every day without complaint, but they did. They may not have had that luxury, but because of them, I do. My opportunities are because of what was done for me, and my actions will impact those who follow.
