It’s Time We Raise Sheep

I’ve been suffering from a fierce case of writer’s block lately. I have nothing to say, or maybe I have too much. These days, my inability to pin down a topic sentence stems from the endless string of topics before me. Every day, I tally ideas in my head.

Idling in the pick-up line at school, a scroll through my phone brings me to a friend’s Facebook post. In it, she outlines a procedure she endured after experiencing two separate miscarriages. She relives the grief of those unchosen, unwanted events to bring awareness to legislation that will outlaw these surgeries. For thousands of women across America, these necessary procedures are already banned. I want to scream. Instead, I jot down idea number one.

A few days later, a letter arrives in the mail. “Please indicate your interest by checking the appropriate box below,” it reads. “I AM interested and wish to be considered for adopting the above noted child(ren),” says the first line. “I AM NOT interested and do not wish to be considered for adopting the above noted child(ren),” reads the second. I have to pick a box. I fold up the letter and return it to my desk. I want to go to sleep. Too much sadness. Too many tallies contained in one piece of paper.

The following week, sitting in a coat room at my child’s school, hunkered down for a routine “safety” drill, I log another topic in my mind. I watch 20 six-year-olds squirm and giggle. My son lays his head in my lap, looks up at me with giant blue eyes, and smiles. He does not understand why we are gathered in this room together. He does not know all the tragedies that brought us here. I want to cry. I add a tally, then take it back off. I do not want to write about that again.

The next morning, my youngest son comes home from school, his curls starting to unravel from the two braids I plaited at the start of the week. “The kids say I look like a girl!” he cries. “The kids all laugh at me!” I tuck the stray pieces of hair back inside his braids. I stare into his eyes and tell him how beautiful he is. I hug him and kiss the line of light brown scalp peeking out from the top of his head. I want to keep him home tomorrow. I add another mark.

At the grocery store that night, I pass by a fellow shopper. I stare at the words printed across their chest. A bright white font reads “Raise lions, not sheep.” I get it. I’ve seen this command in lots of places recently – hoodies and hats that encourage me to abandon the “herd mentality” and find my inner predator.

Still reeling from the hurt placed upon my youngest son, I think, “I’d love to be a lion today.” Who doesn’t feel drawn to rage, to rip skin from bone and gnash teeth from time to time? In truth, I want to be a lion a lot of days, but I resist. Because in those four words – “raise lions, not sheep” – lies the root of the darkness that lives in each moment, in each tally mark I’ve been logging these past months, these past few years.

I have no interest in raising lions. Predatory behavior does not sit on the list of values I aim to instill in my children, most especially my sons. Our world does not need more predators. Look around; we have enough.

Sheep, however, have an innate instinct to gather together, to form a herd in order to protect one another. They find their strength and power when in community. These animals are not prone to aggression – the lone exception being mothers who posture themselves against those who would threaten their young. I think about the coat room lockdown. I think about my curly-haired boy and his braids. Then, I think about the lions.

A mother lion will allow her cub to starve if she is hungry. She will abandon her offspring should they prove to be too weak or too ill. If she births a single-born, she may leave it to die, so she can save her resources for a larger, stronger litter. I think about the shirt in the grocery store. I think about the letter, still sitting unanswered on my desk. I think about my friend and the politicians that paint women as murderous lions but leave the kings of the pride, often themselves, to procreate at will.

Male lions will attack and even kill females who refuse to mate. They rule their followers by fear and violence. When acquiring territories, a male lion will kill cubs of the newly conquered pride, devouring the unrelated babies to nourish himself and eliminate future attempts to challenge his place in the hierarchy.

This all hits far too close to home. We are living in a time where lions can be found everywhere. What benefits come from adding more predators to an already violent world?

It is time to start raising sheep. It is time we raise children who instead of vying to conquer and dominate one another, seek to gather together and, in doing so, create collective protection from the lions, lions who no longer lurk in the shadows but have been given license to walk freely among the flock.

Ashley, Woman of a Certain Rage