Trauma Information

A couple of weeks ago,

I wrote about a man who had a strong reaction to the song, “Sugar, Sugar.”

After talking with the man further,

I learned that he was a Vietnam veteran.

The song had elicited a trauma response in him 

That neither he nor I expected. 

He had been momentarily flooded with memories and feelings that were stored in his body

And the only way he knew to react was by yelling for me to stop.

We see trauma responses like this all the time,

Especially in our combat veterans, 

But we often don’t recognize them as such. 

 

Over the weekend,

I had the opportunity to talk extensively with a good friend about trauma.

Like me, my friend has trouble making her trauma learning deliverable to and practical for someone who hasn’t spent hours studying trauma. 

But, like me, she agreed that it’s information that everyone, especially educators, needs to know about the topic. 

 

Here are some things we deemed important:

 

1. Generational trauma is real. It can take up to 7 generations without trauma to heal generational trauma and break its cycle. 

 

2. You can’t fix someone else’s trauma by yourself. You can love. You can give tools. You can help build resilience. You can hold space. You can help. But you can’t fix trauma alone.

 

3. Trauma is stored in the body and must work itself out of the body for healing. Sometimes this is through sports and exercise. Sometimes through self harm. Sometimes through therapeutic practices. Sometimes through yoga or dance. Sometimes through religious experiences. Sometimes never at all. 

 

4. Trauma responses often look like ADHD. Hyper-vigilance and inability to focus are often side effects of abuse, neglect, and other traumas. 

 

5. Infant and toddler trauma will show up later in life. A person may not consciously remember the trauma but the body does. A lot of the anger and “bad” behavior stems from early childhood trauma. 

 

6. Trauma is a response rather than an event. The same event might traumatize one person but not another. It’s uncontrollable and unpredictable. That’s what makes it so tricky. 

 

7. Unprocessed trauma comes out in wonky ways. 

 

There’s more. 

There’s so much more. 

And maybe I will share more in the future. 

But for now, I will simply challenge you to hold space for people today. 

Hold safe, non-judgmental space for people, 

Including yourself, 

To heal. 

 

Amen. 

The Archies

 

We had our Fall Festival at school this past Friday night. 

My job for each year’s festival is to be the DJ. 

In preparation for this year’s big event, 

I curated a playlist on Amazon Music. 

It was a mix of Halloween music and upbeat music from different decades.

I even asked my colleagues for song requests so that I knew the music would be relevant. 

 

After I got the sound system set up and tried to connect my phone to the speaker via Bluetooth, 

I realized that I was standing in a dead zone.

My phone had no cell signal

Nor would it connect to the school’s Internet.

The result? 

No access to my carefully curated playlist. 

 

Thankfully, I had packed two computers just in case.

Thankfully, again, both computers would connect to the school’s Internet.

Thankfully, for the third time, a friend let me use her YouTube music account and I was able to access the music with no commercials.

And so, I stood typing in the names of songs from the playlist and using YouTube song suggestions.

 

For an hour and a half, 

All was going well…

Until I played one song.

 

Now. 

I like the song Sugar Sugar.

It’s a cute tune from the 1960s and I have a cup game lesson that goes along with it.

So when I started playing it,

I did not expect the older gentleman who was sitting near me

To jump up and come walking toward me with a sense of urgency,

Yelling, “The Archie’s! No! No! No!  Absolutely not!

Stop that music right now!”

 

Afraid that I had accidentally played a politically incorrect group from the 60s,

Or that I had unknowingly triggered a PTSD memory, 

Or that something was majorly wrong,

I immediately stopped the music. 

My heart was racing and I felt a little sick.

I shakingly fumbled to try to find a new song to fill the sudden silence,

All the while, listening to the man say,

“No bubblegum pop.

Bubblegum pop is terrible.

You can play any other style of music, just don’t play that.”

And then he chastised me for being a music teacher who didn’t know what bubblegum pop was. 

 

After he walked away,

I became paranoid about the music I was playing.

Suddenly, not only was I mindful of trying not to play music with cuss words,

But I was also mindful of not playing music that might trigger someone,

Or in this case, 

Possibly just annoy someone who made a really big, somewhat scary deal about it. 

 

We live in precarious times. 

There is so much deep seated trauma 

That we don’t know how to deal with it. 

There is so much anger and emotion that it explodes at weird times 

And transfers to weird situations. 

An elementary school Fall Festival is definitely a weird time. 

And being yelled at and demeaned for playing a song was definitely a weird situation.  

 

But hey. 

Other than that, I had a nice time. 

And that’s something, right?

 

End of Summer Blues

 

Today is my first official day of the 2024/2025 school year. 

 

Maybe I should sugar coat things and say that I’m ready. 

But I won’t. 

And I’m not. 

 

I struggle with change and a lot changed at work over the summer,

Not the least of which was my classroom. 

It makes it hard to find my bearings and to firmly plant my feet on solid ground.

 

Also, while I’m grateful to be an able bodied and minded teacher in America,

The responsibility sometimes feels overwhelming.

We are responsible for the physical, mental, and emotional safety and well-being of

Hundreds of little creatures, 

Many of whom carry deep trauma wounds,

And come from backgrounds of abuse and neglect, 

In a society that values guns and hatred and violence and cut offs 

And does not know how to cordially disagree. 

We have limited financial support and resources, 

Politicians out to defund public education and to thwart equity for all races, religions, and socioeconomic levels, 

Critics at every door, ready to find offense and broadcast it on social media, 

And hands tied behind our backs with discipline. 

We are charged with being experts in our fields yet questioned when we stretch minds. 

We are expected to wear the hats of nurses, firefighters, waiters, event planners, writers, editors, cheerleaders, actors, law enforcement officers, and super heroes, 

Ready to put our lives on the line for our students, 

Which we do, 

Because it’s what we do. 

 

But sometimes. 

The thoughts are overwhelming.  

 

And today,

This first day back after a much-needed respite from the grind, 

During a major episode of the End of Summer Blues, 

Is one of those days. 

 

Don’t fret. 

I am fine. 

I am greeting the day, and the year, with as much positivity and hope and courage as I can. 

I am smiling and hugging and greeting my colleagues whom I am glad to see. 

And when the students come next week,

I will do my best to remember names and welcome them back to the one place where many of them feel happy and safe. 

 

It’s just. 

Sometimes it’s hard. 

For all of us.

Not just teachers.

And I think, sometimes, it’s helpful to name that much. 

 

Oh God, on days like today, grant us the strength, hope, courage, and light to name what we’re feeling and then to push through, one moment at a time. You have called us to have life abundant. Help us to live into that abundant life, always. Amen. 

Despite It All

I am a preacher’s kid, so my dad was my pastor growing up.

He has supported women in ministry for my whole life,

So it didn’t occur to me until I was much older that there were people who didn’t support me,

A woman in ministry.

 

One time many years ago,

I had a pastor exasperated that I spoke from the pulpit.

He wanted me to say nothing.

The next time we led worship together,

I did as he requested,

And he was thrilled.

He even patted me on the head,

Grinning,

And told me what a great job I had done leading worship.

I hadn’t led worship.

I had been a puppet, announcing hymn numbers, and waving my arms.

To this day,

I have a visceral reaction when I hear that pastor’s voice and think about the condescending nature of his actions.

I feel sick.

And the pain from those few experiences comes right back to the surface.

 

Clearly, in his mind,

And in the minds of many others’,

Maybe even you,

I am less than because I am a woman.

 

I know the scriptural arguments against women in ministry.

I know the scriptural arguments in support of women in ministry.

I know denominational beliefs and

I know that we don’t all have to feel the same way.

 

I also know that damning or demeaning someone’s understanding and experience of God and God’s call on their life creates religious trauma that lingers for years and years and leaves many people wondering why they stick with the church at all.

 

Why stick with a Church that puts you down, tries to silence you, and does everything it can to tell you you’re less than?

 

I know many people who haven’t.

I know many people who have given up going to church because they are never good enough,

Even with the Christ they profess but who they hear is constantly upset with them for falling short.

 

After awhile,

After being told that you are bad, and wrong, and a depraved sinner,

And in the case of women,

Less than man because you ate the fruit of the apple,

It gets kind of hard to want to keep going.

It gets kind of hard to want to follow the Jesus who opened his table to all,

When the table is closed to you because of who you are.

 

Religious trauma is no joke.

It is real.

It runs deep.

And it pushes people away from a God who deemed Godself Love,

And who inspired the scriptures to say that, “There is neither Jew or Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ.”

 

Oh God: Help the Church, Your Body, to stop the self-harm and to do better. And God? Help us to heal. Despite it all, I love you so much. So very, very much. Amen.

Trauma Response

 Last week during one of my classes,

I witnessed a kid have a trauma response.

Another kid either touched or pushed him—

I didn’t see which—

And it really upset him.

He ran over to the kid,

Said, “Don’t touch me again,”

And then ran to the back of the room

Where he stayed for the rest of class,

Trying to pull himself together.

He wasn’t trying to get attention.

He wasn’t being stubborn and not going to his seat.

He was shut down,

Clearly triggered by the other kids’ touch.

 

Last Sunday, as I was scrolling through FB,

This video caught my attention.

As I watched,

Somewhat horrified,

Somewhat sad,

I kept thinking,
“Trauma response.

This guy is so enraged that he’s not thinking.

Something has triggered him and he’s gone.”

 

According to Bing’s AI generated search,

A trauma trigger is a psychological stimulus that prompts involuntary recall of a previous traumatic experience. It can be anything that reminds you of a past trauma, such as a certain smell, a particular song or sound, or a piece of clothing.  Triggers are unique to the individual and can vary widely between people.  When you encounter a trigger after trauma, a strong emotional and behavioral reaction comes over you. It’s as if you are reliving that trauma all over again.  The word “triggered” has become a popular term to describe anything that causes emotional discomfort. But for people who have experienced trauma, triggers can be terrifying, all-consuming, and can seemingly come out of nowhere. 

 

So. The next time you see someone strongly overreact,

Stop and understand that they may be acting out of a trauma response.

And even if they’re not,

The stress of their lives may just be too much for them to handle in that moment.

Does it excuse hurtful, damaging behavior?

No.

But it sheds life on its roots…

And it reminds us that there is far more going on in a person’s life than we see on the surface.

 

Oh God: Give us eyes to see and ears to hear those who are hurting around us. When it’s us who is hurting, help us to get the help that we need. And when it’s those whom we love who are hurting, help us to love them in the exact ways they need to be loved—even if it means kicking them into your arms and allowing you do what we cannot. Be with victims of systemic trauma and grant them the resources that they need to heal. Help us to not perpetuate a broken system but to learn, to educate, and to rise above the brokenness, into wholeness in you. Amen. 

Bat Attack

Last Friday, I heard a sound that I dread: bats. Sure enough, as I crept into the attic, smelling a smell that I have come to know as bat, cautiously surveying my surroundings, I found a group of bats roosted behind the screen in the gable. I yelled and ran out of the attic.

Back up a few years…

One morning, I happily but sleepily went downstairs to say good morning to my mom. My dad wasn’t home. As I got to the bottom of the stairs, something came flying at my head. I screamed, startled mom, and ran out the door, leaving my mom all alone with what I knew to be either a bird or bat. It scared me so badly that I couldn’t do anything but stand on the porch and hold the door open—and shake and sob. I refused to go back into the house for at least thirty minutes, and even then, I was scared.

Long story short, the BAT, after flying at my head, had hidden itself downstairs for a few hours and then appeared to my mom and dad who got rid of it. I was asleep upstairs. I was so traumatized that I had had to put myself back to bed…but not without hesitation of coming upstairs and having something fly at my head. That hesitation lasted for months.

Around that same time, I heard some squeaks from the attic and heard something hitting the door ever so often. I told my dad of the noises, and his solution was to head into the attic with no protection to see what was in there. You know what it was: a bat. He figured that if the bat could get in to the attic, then the bat could get out…but it didn’t. It and its family perished in the attic that summer. I found their dead little bat carcasses sometime later…

This was a few years ago. We forgot to get someone to come to the house to seal any cracks that would let bats in. No one but me really even thought about it until last week. And then…

All of the trauma of a few summers ago returned. I have dreamed about bats three times in less than a week. They have attacked my head and grown to the size of monkeys. I have been hesitant to go downstairs, come upstairs, or round any corners in the house. My conversations have centered around bats and my friends have felt so badly for me that one sent bat repellent and two more came to the house to see what they could do. I’ve even contacted a bat removal company, but they can’t do anything until August because bats are a protected species.

I know that bats are good to have around. I know that they are basically harmless and that they eat lots of bugs and mosquitoes. I know that they don’t intentionally attack humans. I know that they are even sort of cute.

But, folks: The part of my brain that knows all of those things has been disconnected from the part of my brain that says that I either need to “fight, flight, or freeze.” That’s what happens when trauma is triggered: We fight; we run (flight); or we freeze.

Friends: If I have completely shut down and witnessed the activation of the trauma brain over my minute experiences with bats, can you imagine how much more so the trauma of systematic racism has influenced people’s lives? Can you imagine how living every day feeling judged has affected people’s dreams? Can you imagine living every day—not just bat season—looking over your shoulder, wondering if someone or something is going to attack?...

Thankfully, the bats in my attic have moved on for now. Maybe they sensed they weren’t welcome? Hopefully, my traumatized brain will return to its fully integrated self soon and I can stop living in fear.

Oh! that it were that simple for my friends of color. Oh! that years of oppression could just fly away.

Friends: We have work to do.

God. Help us. Amen.