handstories

Full & Unfulfilled

Cameron Darnell Lamb

"Father, son, brother, cousin & beloved friend

Sunrise June 14, 1993 - Sunset December 3, 2019"

 

    Father of three young boys, who was a mechanic, loved working with his hands, offered helping hands in his community, was fun, loving... and was loved.

    There are hands (representing his) holding hearts with his boys' names, symbols for his love of Chevys and the Kansas City Chiefs, twenty-six solid stars (for each year of his life),

 

 

...and fifty-three unfilled and unfulfilled stars for the years that Cameron will not have (The average life span is 79).

 

 

    I kept Cameron, his children, mother, and loved ones in my heart while stitching.  Especially his mother's heartbreak of having her son become a memory.  I hope it holds the love he gave and that they held for him.

    Please visit the Social Justice Sewing Academy Remembrance Project here to learn more about this powerful project and organization, and how you might contribute.  

    (Click on the "Cameron Lamb" or "Social Justice Sewing Academy" categories below to read more about this project.)

Holding memories

    Just the "C" left to do, and then on to the hands.  Cameron was known as a "tinkerer"- a mechanic who was good with his hands.   My plan is to stitch symbols onto the palms- representing people and things that were important to him.

    I photographed Moon's hands as a reference, and then traced them for patterns.  With a pencil in one hand, and the other on top of his, holding it flat, I was filled with gratitude at being able to touch my boy, and also with so much grief for Cameron's mother who will never touch her son again.  She has said, "I hate that my son is a memory."

Cameron Lamb 1993-2019

    Cameron Lamb with his three sons. 

    Father, son, brother, and beloved friend, Cameron was killed backing into his driveway by an undercover Kansas City, MO police officer over a traffic violation.  Two officers entered the property without warrant or consent, with guns drawn, killing Cameron within moments.  One officer, who was closer, reported that he did not see a gun.  The second officer said that Cameron used his left hand to reach for and point a gun at the closer officer, necessitating the need to shoot him four times.  Cameron was right handed and did not have full use of his left hand from an injury years before.

     While the officer who killed Cameron has been charged with involuntary manslaughter and armed criminal action for recklessly causing his death, many questions still remain unanswered.

    This is the background for Cameron's block, part of the Social Justice Sewing Academy Remembrance Project.  (More about this project and the other empowering work of this wonderful organization here.)   After hours of reading articles, looking at photos and watching videos of Cameron holding, feeding, kissing, loving his boys, and with family and friends, it's his children and mother that stay with me.  One of his sons asked, "How long will my dad be dead?" 

    I hope to honor Cameron's life, spirit and loved ones with this piece.  More to come...

Truth Teller

    K and I were living just outside of D.C., in a company apartment for a few months while he was taking part in a training program.    We were married just over a year and I was 21 years old.  His parents asked to come for a visit at Thanksgiving.  We said no.  K was in class six days a week, so I knew it would mean long days alone with them, not at all what I was up for at that time in my life.

    They announced that they had already bought tickets and would be staying for a week.  (It took a few more years before they learned no means no, and for us to learn to say it clearly.)  So they came.  Each day I listened to all of their ideas of what, where and how we should spend our time, lives, etc., ...venting to K each night.

    On the last night, K's mom was talking about how we all have gifts.  Each of us.  Something that is our strength and obligation to share with others.  She then went on to describe how much she loved having people in her home- thinking about what to feed them, what they would enjoy doing, how to make everything special for her guests, etc., ending with, "Yes, I know mine is the Gift of Hospitality!"

    Without missing a beat, with my eyes closed with the exasperation and frustration of the last six days, without a moment's hesitation, or thought, or any nuance of grace, I blurted out, "Well, I don't know what mine is, but it's Not hospitality!"

    (FYI- this is a very good way to silence a room.)

    The next day, after taking them to the airport, I called a friend and told her about the conversation and my unhospitable reaction.  Without missing a beat, she said, "Your gift is prophecy.  You're a truth teller."

    She rewrapped all of my blunt, socially awkward, straight-forward ways into something to celebrate.  My tendency to show all of my cards and call out everyone else's, was a good thing! 

    I don't know if my mother-in-law quite saw it that way when I later shared this revelation with her, but we both knew it was the truth.

in Remembrance and Hope

In remembrance of Michael Brown (1996-2014)

Social Justice Sewing Academy Remembrance Project 

    Next it will travel to those who will quilt and stitch it and other blocks into "activist art banners for local and national activist organizations who have requested creative statements to be publicly displayed that represent solidarity as well as remembrance. This partnership will create a visual statement to memorialize those who have been unjustly murdered by police, racial vigilantism, or as a result of their gender, sexual orientation and other forms of identity politics. These artivism blocks will honor the lives of individuals through symbolism and portrait. Their names and identities will be displayed during community activism events reminding the world that their lives mattered."

    (Please visit the link above to learn more about the project and other empowering work of this wonderful organization.  This line in their description strikes my heart... "When you take a step back and look at the sheer size of the exhibit you realize the tragic fact that you will run out of volunteers long before you run out of names.")

    That little silver starred blue patch in the middle right is a scrap of mama love.  A bit of the cloth that was used in both Blue's and Moon's baby quilts.  A gift from K. when I was pregnant with Blue, and finally feeling safe enough to hope he would really come.  Now, ages 22 and almost 18, my boys are here, filled with ideas and hopes, with their whole lives ahead of them.

    Michael should be a 24 year old young man now, he should be making the music he loved, working at a job that his college education would have led to, hanging out with friends, living and filling his life with ideas and hopes.  

    This time of stitching this block and thinking on what I've been able to learn about Michael have been a journey.  Reading the stories about Michael's killing, the two sides of it- He had problems/he had promise, he jaywalked and shoplifted/he was joking around, he charged the officer/he had his hands up and called "Don't shoot!"....  It's easy to get lost in the "He said/He saids" of it all.  But they don't matter.

     What is true is that he was an unarmed human being who is now dead.

     There is so much to muddle through in anti-racist work, inside and out.  As a mama, a white woman and a human being, I worried about getting this square Right.   Not for me, but in honor of Michael and those who loved him.  I know that it isn't possible, there is no "Right" in any of this. I'm learning that it's important to being willing to be uncomfortable, unsure, wrong, and to keep trying, to do better for Michael, for those who loved and lost him, and for so many others... for all of us.

Warning: This is a "Me, too" post

    I do try to keep this a peaceful place, but the following is not.  So, if you'd like to keep thinking of me, and here, in the same way, click away now.

    This is "Core," a piece I made back in 2011.  Working on it exercised some demons and brought some spirit healing.  Over the last couple of weeks, some of those same demons have come knocking at the door again, and they brought along their friends, too.  

    Things are ok, I am ok, but there have been some things to work through.  It's hard and good work.

    And the news, and the news has tied into it, too... It seems every day brings another story of a man who is finally being called out for sexual misconduct towards women.  People are shocked.  WHY?!?  What is shocking is that it has been tolerated, ignored, allowed, expected, and even sometimes encouraged, for so long.  

    There is this growing list of famous men, but it's also strangers, peers, boyfriends, uncles, fathers, etc... 

     Every adult woman has had at least one incident where they were treated as less than, not worthy of, or disrespected, because of being a woman.  Whether it was a sexist joke, an overheard comment ("You throw like a girl."), not having equal pay or opportunities, being leered at by a passerby, or being attacked- we have all had something happen to us, and to our souls, in this society.  

    And as an adult woman who has been patronized, minimized, ignored, put down, whistled at, commented to, stared at (and I don't mean my eyes)...

    And as a former teenage young woman who was told she needed to learn her place, had her body discussed and analyzed like a piece of meat while in the same rooms, was threatened, and assaulted...

    And as a former young girl who told to behave, was molested and told to keep quiet... 

    I am shouting, Me, too!  And, It's about fucking time this surface was scratched.

what's there

    Yesterday, in Oregon, our home town, for my dad's wife's memorial gathering.  Knew her for over thirty years, but not really.  She was a good kind person, things were/are complicated, but not. 

    I went with anxiety, but ended up being surprised at what else was found there.  People from the past, from childhood.  A few had been beacons of possibilities back then, others were reprieves, some were just the same as I had left them.

    And seeing my dad so sad, and alone in it all . . . watching him lean against a wall, in an orange shirt, starting to cry, snot dripping from his nose, wiping it away with shaky hands and a blue bandana kerchief, the same kind that I practiced ironing on, way back when.  I took a step across the empty space that was between us and touched his shoulder.  Stepping back, after a moment, while someone handed him a can of beer.

    Trying to understand how opposite truths can exist at the same time- the now and then, and the then and then.  And how to hold all of them, because they are all true stories.

in the presence of absence

       On Saturday, I came across something from my grandfather.  He's not someone who was a part of our lives, other than the wake of baggage that he passed along.  The last time I saw him was about twenty-five years ago.  I cornered him, asking questions, trying to get to the truth of some of the stories.  He waved me off in his growly way.  

    On Sunday, I learned that he had died the day before.

    That afternoon I went looking for fabric to cover the last corner of "uncertainty".  I landed on this, loud and obnoxious, named "Journey".  I think it was meant to be joyful, I latched onto the map aspect of it, then as I looked closer, began seeing things in it- storms, sea monsters, sea-sickness.

    There was this moment, and I can't find the right words for it, but an overwhelming moment, of beginning to let it all in, when I put my hands on it all, and began to shake- from all of the broken and lost pieces of the story, from sadness of not feeling sad, for this man that is gone.

     Some manipulation is taking place, making it part of my odyssey for truth and understanding.

    Rex, he was a fisherman who lived to be ninety-eight.  I wonder what his story was?  How did he get from there to here?

on being an introvert

    Sometimes I feel like I just hate people.  But I don’t.  I just don’t understand how to be with most of them, especially when they are in groups.

    I decided to try a meeting of a local sewing group.  The therapist was pleased. My outgoing dearest friend was glad.  They were both encouraged and encouraging that I was stepping out of my comfort zone.  (It had only taken years since I’d first heard about the group.)

    I went and sat in the back row of more than fifty people.  They seemed like a happy and friendly group with each other.  The meeting began.  I stood up to be introduced with a few other visitors.  I noticed that I was the only visitor that had not come with a member.  It was pretty clear from the get-go that it wasn’t my kind of stitching, but still, maybe there would be connection over the joy of being with cloth.

    And then came the break.  Small groups gathered to snack, mingle, share.  I sat there in the back row, between empty chairs.  I looked down, saw that my arms and legs were crossed.  Not an open friendly body language pose.  I rearranged.  I smiled.  Maybe it looked like I was going to throw up, but I was trying to smile.  I sat there trying to think of how to open a conversation.  Would “Hi, I’m an introvert, please help me.” work?

    After fifteen minutes, nothing.  I stood up and moved near a group.  Nothing.  I went back to my chair.  Five more minutes.  Maybe coming uninvited, without a member was taboo?  Maybe there was a secret handshake or password I was missing?

    The usual self-talk began . . .

    “What’s the matter with you?”

    “I want to leave.” 

    “You can’t leave, that would be rude.  You will hurt their feelings.  What will people think?  There is only an hour to go.  This break will end, all you have to do is sit here and watch and listen. You’re not going to die from this.  Buck up!”

    And then I did something new.  I talked back.

    “THEY are being rude.  MY feelings are hurt.  They are NOT thinking about me.  This is NOT working for me.  I will never see them again.  (And if I do, they clearly won't be talking to me.)  These are NOT my people.  I do NOT need to do this for one more minute, let alone another hour, and I CAN leave.” 

    And I did.  And I said mostly kind things to myself all the way home.

    It was not a social break-through, but it was a small personal one.

    Hello, I am an introvert, and I am learning to take care of me, nice to meet you.

eyed.

    Begun with a desire for justice and that crazy feeling that comes from thinking you are the only one who sees the truth.  But things evolve, including me.  

    In the last weeks, some truth has finally come to light, things will be changing.  Am I sorry that I'm not there to see it happen?  I don't think so, but I am glad, so glad.  

    Even in the grayest of days, there are others (the chickadees told me so).