Kitchen Floor Politics
At some point in my past, I think I coined the term kitchen floor politics. I say that I think I coined it because I know, at this age, that I might not be remembering accurately. I could have borrowed it from someone else. At any rate, for me the term came out my experience of living in community with other folks who were interested in sharing money, ideas, and friendship while we sought to do our part to create a more just and loving community. Although these were rich experiences, it sometimes seemed as if some of us were very articulate when it came to the rhetoric of creating a world in which each person was treated with love and respect. When it came to how we lived and took care of each other we seemed to often be much too busy with “important matters” to tend to the daily tasks of maintaining a home or noticing when one of us was having a difficult time. The symbol for this seeming inability to practice what we so eloquently articulated came to be for me the status of the kitchen floor. Did anyone notice that the kitchen floor needed mopped, the garbage taken out, the bills paid, the tears of a housemate wiped or a child needed attention? In other words, it seemed to me that the real struggle for us was learning to live as if we valued each other. Too often it seemed as if the women and “gay men’ were the ones who seemed to notice that we needed to move beyond rhetoric if our words were to mean anything. The term kitchen floor politics came to symbolize whether or not someone was trustworthy as a partner in keeping the machinery of a home operating for everyone, including the children.
I still find that it is often the women and a few men in my life who notice when the mundane tasks of life need some attention. For example, at the YMCA there is one man who always seems to be the one trainer who notices that the paper towel dispenser is empty, the sanitized container needs refilling or some piece of equipment needs to be put back where it belongs so that no one trips over it or cannot locate it. Actually, I have a number of male and female friends who are very good at noticing when something or someone needs attention. I am very grateful for these people in my life. I also, however, continue to be aware that it is often the women I know who are doing the tedious work of committees, taking care of aging or sick relatives, sending birthday cards or otherwise doing those tasks which nurture others or make it possible for the “important work” to get done”. In some ways it seems as if we men, as a whole, but with wonderful exceptions, have a lot to learn. Perhaps if we were the ones who had to live with a pregnancy, birth a child and nurse a child we would be more attuned to the practical tasks which make it possible for “important” work to get done. Perhaps! Perhaps not! Having just said this even my women friends who are not carried and birthed a child seems tuned in to the practical needs of those around them.
I was thinking of this while working out at the gym Sunday morning and listening to a 2010 interview Krista Tippett on “On Being” did with Elizabeth Alexander, the poet and scholar. Some of you might best know Mrs. Alexander as the person who wrote and delivered the poem for the inauguration of President Barrack Obama in 2009.
A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration
By Elizabeth Alexander
Each day we go about our business,
Walking past each other, catching each other’s
Eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
Noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
One of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
With a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
With cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
Spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
Words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
The will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.
I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead, who brought us here,
Who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
Picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
Brick by brick the glittering edifices
They would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
The figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
Others by first do no harm or take no more
Than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
Love that casts a widening pool of light,
Love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
Any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
Praise song for walking forward in that light.
Praise song for walking forward in that light.
Ms. Alexander says it so much better than I could. She reminds us that love is a verb and not a noun. She reminds us that we must pick the cotton, built a home brick by brick, mop the kitchen floor, shop for groceries, darn the socks (does anyone still do this?), keep track of birthdays and send a card or pick up the phone, wipe the tears, celebrate the victories, and share the grief.
It is not surprising that during that same interview Ms. Alexander remembered a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, “Kitehenette building”
We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”
But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms
Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?
We wonder. But not well! Not for a minute!
Since Number five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.
I must admit that I had not heard this poem of Ms. Brooks previously. I am delighted that this gift simple made an unexpected appearance.
Just this past Saturday I sent in my entry for the September 11 sermon contest which Trinity Church in New York City is sponsoring. The assigned title is reconciliation. For me the challenge of the sermon was acknowledging the horror of the events of September 11, 2001 while, at the same time, allowing for the possibility of the miracle of reconciliation. Although I did not think of it until I heard Mrs. Alexander and Ms.Brooks speaking through their poems, reconciliation is much like a poem. It is that miracle which, without much ado, arrives in the midst of living “life”. It is that dream made manifest.
Sunday morning I had a message from a good friend who has struggled with addiction. He told me that he has been having a difficult time the past couple of days but he is using his spiritual tools to do what he needs to do. This is a miracle. Today his life today is a poem well lived.
Ms. Alexander mentioned that the brevity and the succinctness of the poem made it possible for busy women to give voice to their experiences, hopes and dreams (my words). Much like the quilt which takes material which is already present and which is also something this is needed for survival, women learned to use the canvas of the quilt to create art that often male artists later put on canvases and for which they got the credit.
It seems that poems sometimes have to wonder around for a bit, but often unlike prose, they sneak in between the seemingly, mundane smells and sounds of life. They give voice to her grief, our joys and are amazing ability to dream – to make love manifest.
Thanks to all the women in my life and particularly to Ms. Alexander and Ms. Brooks.
At some point in my past, I think I coined the term kitchen floor politics. I say that I think I coined it because I know, at this age, that I might not be remembering accurately. I could have borrowed it from someone else. At any rate, for me the term came out my experience of living in community with other folks who were interested in sharing money, ideas, and friendship while we sought to do our part to create a more just and loving community. Although these were rich experiences, it sometimes seemed as if some of us were very articulate when it came to the rhetoric of creating a world in which each person was treated with love and respect. When it came to how we lived and took care of each other we seemed to often be much too busy with “important matters” to tend to the daily tasks of maintaining a home or noticing when one of us was having a difficult time. The symbol for this seeming inability to practice what we so eloquently articulated came to be for me the status of the kitchen floor. Did anyone notice that the kitchen floor needed mopped, the garbage taken out, the bills paid, the tears of a housemate wiped or a child needed attention? In other words, it seemed to me that the real struggle for us was learning to live as if we valued each other. Too often it seemed as if the women and “gay men’ were the ones who seemed to notice that we needed to move beyond rhetoric if our words were to mean anything. The term kitchen floor politics came to symbolize whether or not someone was trustworthy as a partner in keeping the machinery of a home operating for everyone, including the children.
I still find that it is often the women and a few men in my life who notice when the mundane tasks of life need some attention. For example, at the YMCA there is one man who always seems to be the one trainer who notices that the paper towel dispenser is empty, the sanitized container needs refilling or some piece of equipment needs to be put back where it belongs so that no one trips over it or cannot locate it. Actually, I have a number of male and female friends who are very good at noticing when something or someone needs attention. I am very grateful for these people in my life. I also, however, continue to be aware that it is often the women I know who are doing the tedious work of committees, taking care of aging or sick relatives, sending birthday cards or otherwise doing those tasks which nurture others or make it possible for the “important work” to get done”. In some ways it seems as if we men, as a whole, but with wonderful exceptions, have a lot to learn. Perhaps if we were the ones who had to live with a pregnancy, birth a child and nurse a child we would be more attuned to the practical tasks which make it possible for “important” work to get done. Perhaps! Perhaps not! Having just said this even my women friends who are not carried and birthed a child seems tuned in to the practical needs of those around them.
I was thinking of this while working out at the gym Sunday morning and listening to a 2010 interview Krista Tippett on “On Being” did with Elizabeth Alexander, the poet and scholar. Some of you might best know Mrs. Alexander as the person who wrote and delivered the poem for the inauguration of President Barrack Obama in 2009.
A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration
By Elizabeth Alexander
Each day we go about our business,
Walking past each other, catching each other’s
Eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
Noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
One of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
With a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
With cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
Spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
Words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
The will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.
I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead, who brought us here,
Who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
Picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
Brick by brick the glittering edifices
They would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
The figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
Others by first do no harm or take no more
Than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
Love that casts a widening pool of light,
Love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
Any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
Praise song for walking forward in that light.
Praise song for walking forward in that light.
Ms. Alexander says it so much better than I could. She reminds us that love is a verb and not a noun. She reminds us that we must pick the cotton, built a home brick by brick, mop the kitchen floor, shop for groceries, darn the socks (does anyone still do this?), keep track of birthdays and send a card or pick up the phone, wipe the tears, celebrate the victories, and share the grief.
It is not surprising that during that same interview Ms. Alexander remembered a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, “Kitehenette building”
We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”
But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms
Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?
We wonder. But not well! Not for a minute!
Since Number five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.
I must admit that I had not heard this poem of Ms. Brooks previously. I am delighted that this gift simple made an unexpected appearance.
Just this past Saturday I sent in my entry for the September 11 sermon contest which Trinity Church in New York City is sponsoring. The assigned title is reconciliation. For me the challenge of the sermon was acknowledging the horror of the events of September 11, 2001 while, at the same time, allowing for the possibility of the miracle of reconciliation. Although I did not think of it until I heard Mrs. Alexander and Ms.Brooks speaking through their poems, reconciliation is much like a poem. It is that miracle which, without much ado, arrives in the midst of living “life”. It is that dream made manifest.
Sunday morning I had a message from a good friend who has struggled with addiction. He told me that he has been having a difficult time the past couple of days but he is using his spiritual tools to do what he needs to do. This is a miracle. Today his life today is a poem well lived.
Ms. Alexander mentioned that the brevity and the succinctness of the poem made it possible for busy women to give voice to their experiences, hopes and dreams (my words). Much like the quilt which takes material which is already present and which is also something this is needed for survival, women learned to use the canvas of the quilt to create art that often male artists later put on canvases and for which they got the credit.
It seems that poems sometimes have to wonder around for a bit, but often unlike prose, they sneak in between the seemingly, mundane smells and sounds of life. They give voice to her grief, our joys and are amazing ability to dream – to make love manifest.
Thanks to all the women in my life and particularly to Ms. Alexander and Ms. Brooks.
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