On Not Being Nice

I have been sitting with the verdict of the George Zimmerman trial all week. I have been sitting with it, creepy mournful ghastly thing, hunkering on my shoulder and poking its poky tendrils through my brain, and it is a nasty tear-making creature. Ignoring it is not making it go away.

 

Many people have written about the murder of Trayvon Martin and the context of this case, far more eloquently than I could ever do. The vilification of Trayvon, whose side of the story we will never really know, has been sickening. People attribute and project all sorts of things on this dead boy that it is impossible to know. I have been reading all different viewpoints, and it has been eroding my stomach lining, and I just have to stop.

 

However, among the many, many pieces I read this week, two really struck me as useful:

 (1) At Native-Born, Faiqa Khan writes (and btw, hat-tip to Kristen at Rage Against the Minivan for her amazing roundup of links, via which I found this):  We acquit each other when we look the other way when a remark is made about “those people” and why they are “that way.” We acquit each other when we accept the idea that “race is not an issue.”

I want to tell you all, for your own good, stop saying that. If you think race isn’t an issue, then race is most definitely an issue for you. When you pretend something does not exist, you give it power. …You cannot destroy that which you think does not exist. You cannot heal a sickness if you refuse to believe that you are sick. You deny a sickness, though, and it only grows. 

 

(2)  And over at Mocha Momma, two old posts which are not related to Trayvon, but which gave me a lot to chew on: one, where Kelly Wickham recounts going to BlogHer in New York and having to tell off aloud-mouthed woman on the bus; and two, where she describes overhearing a loud racist conversation and how she responded. (Warning:  this second post also later contains one of the most heartbreaking stories that you might ever read about her dad’s ugly encounter with racism as a child. It wrecked me.)

 

This week I have been thinking a lot about the moments when I have been confronted with prejudiced behavior and I have not wanted to confront the behavior because I am at work or at a party where I don’t know many people, and I don’t want people to feel uncomfortable. But *I* am uncomfortable. It is this socialization to be quiet, not to make a fuss, which allows behavior like this to continue. Unabated, because I don’t do my part to abate it. I can’t wring my hands about racism continuing to exist if I am not actively doing my part to help erase it.

 

I am a white black woman. Both of my parents are light-skinned black folks. Many people in my family can pass for white, and many have (they don’t talk to the rest of us). In the day-to-day, black people for the most part recognize me as one of them – because most African American families run the gamut of skin color, and inevitably I am told “You look like my niece,” or “You remind me of my cousin.” Most white people do not realize I am black unless I explicitly say so. I have the privilege of being able to fly under the radar, so to speak. I recognize this is a privilege, but I have never enjoyed it. Sometimes people act like I am playing a nasty joke on them when they discover I am black.

 

At any rate, I know where this silence comes from, and it is hard to get past. Many members of my immediate family are “ethnically ambiguous,” and they have learned it is better to be silent in the face of prejudice, to go along to get along. And that worked for them, I guess, but at the price of their own self-worth. Because to ignore what you are, to deny what you are, means that there is something implicitly wrong with what you are. And that is just bullshit.

 

There are times when I do speak up. There are times when I am already so weary of the person in question (for other reasons) that I don’t feel like making it a “teachable moment.” There are times when I am so shocked by what someone has said that I can’t speak. But the times when I don’t speak up? They eat away at me. It’s poisonous.

 

Coming back around to my point: this week I’ve decided to stop being nice. I’m not going to be nasty, but I’m not going to keep my mouth shut. This way, over here? It’s the way forward. And it won’t reverse the verdict, and it won’t bring Trayvon back to his family. But it will help me move toward a world I feel more comfortable in.

 

And Now For Something Completely Different

Is this thing on?

I have so many things to talk about. Let’s start with just one, because it’s so ridiculously entertaining:  have you heard about the quote-unquote song “Accidental Racist, ” a collaboration between country singer Brad Paisley and hip hop icon LL Cool J?

OH EM GEE!

Evidently the intention of this song was to let Brad Paisley explain that being a white man in the South, he feels like he is walking on eggshells all the time around black folks, and to let LL Cool James soothe his rattled nerves.  “Hey, no problem, go ahead and wear your Confederate flag, it’s all good, brah!”

Let me tell you, Ladies Love Cool James, but this is a hot mess. It is like an SNL skit when it goes painfully wrong, like right off the rails. Here are some sample lyrics, just so you understand:

“RIP Robert E. Lee but I gotta thank Abraham Lincoln for freeing me, know what I mean"

“If you don’t judge my gold chains… I’ll forget the iron chains” (No, for REALS.)

Needless to say, the blogosphere is having a field day with this, as it is just too good to pass up. Perhaps the most entertaining critical interpretation I’ve seen so far is at Grantland.

Here’s a taste of it (but please go read the whole thing, because it is quite funny):

 

"I wasn't there when Sherman's march turned the South into firewood
I want you to get paid but be a slave I never could"

Just so you're clear, LL is saying that he wants white people to make money, but would appreciate it if it didn't come at the expense of his freedom from slavery. It seemed necessary to spell that out, in case it went over your head.

Whew. 

I think it's laudable to try and have a dialogue about racial issues in this country - God knows we need it. This just ain't it.

Color Blind

Photo from blackradionetwork.com.

Last week, just before the admittedly hectic Easter/birthday weekend, I read an article which talked about Kim Kardashian’s thoughts on raising a biracial baby.
 

First, let me apologize for even adding to the amount of Kardashian commentary out there, but I just can’t help myself, because she made a seemingly innocuous comment that really bugs me.

In an interview with BET, Kim Kardashian said:

“I have a lot of friends that are all different nationalities, and their children are bi-racial. So they have kind of talked to me a little bit about it, what to expect and what not to expect. I think that the most important thing is how I would want to raise my children, is just to not see color. [Emphasis mine] That’s important to me.”

Hold the phone. What??

 

There’s nothing wrong with seeing color, Kimmy. There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that people have different skin colors. You can choose to celebrate it or denigrate it, and that’s where the problems arise. 

 

If you teach your child not to see color, you are doing him or her a disservice – especially (but not only) if you are raising a child OF COLOR in America. Much as it’s been hyped, we do not live in a post-racial world. If you choose to teach your child to be “color blind,” to not acknowledge the differences that exist, you are teaching him or her to ignore people’s differences. And people are different, and they are beautiful. To teach your child to be color blind is to ignore the diversity of beauty within his or her own family, not to mention the world around him/her.

To raise your child “just not to see color” not only translates into not appreciating the beauty and richness of different colors and cultures but also translates into not preparing them for life as a person of color – and perhaps you think you may be able to shield them from that reality due to your fame and fortune, but let’s be real.

In a world where Forrest Whitaker gets stopped and frisked in a New York deli, let’s be real.

In a world where my highly-educated, law-abiding husband can get stopped on the street randomly because of his dark skin, or where a police officer can follow my minding-his-own-business dark-skinned teenage nephew home for no reason at all:  let’s be real.

Racism and prejudice are alive and well. And to be a parent to a bi-racial child, you can’t be blind to that fact. Like any expectant parent, I am sure you want to be the best mother you can be. But that means teaching your child to appreciate differences, not ignore them. And that means preparing your child for the reality that the world may treat them differently than they treat you, simply because of their skin color. I agree we should all strive for a world where this isn’t the case, but let’s not stick our heads in the sand.

For more commentary, visit here and here. Or just Google. Folks are a little irritated, Kimmy. It behooves you to try and understand why.

Inescapable, Inexplicable. History.

In my lunch time travels yesterday, I came across the above graffito spray painted across someone’s garage. When I shared it with the family later, Viva said:  “Los Angeles? I don’t think so. I think probably Birmingham.”

 Whew, Black History Month, you are kicking my ass. You are giving my baby headaches, and stomach aches, and nausea, and trembly legs. You are interrupting her sleep.  For it appears that in 4^th grade, the gloves have come off, and the reality of slavery is being presented to my child in class.

 (“Not the worst parts though,” she says. “Mr. B____ skips over the really bad parts.”)

They covered the Civil Rights Movement earlier, and that, she could get behind – of course, it is empowering to hear about taking a stand and forcing a change  – but slavery knocked her down.  My kid is super-sensitive to violence of any kind and she is also hyper-vigilant to any kind of injustice, so learning about the details of the slave trade literally makes her ill. We talked about the Middle Passage yesterday, and of how mind-bogglingly inhumane it must have been, beyond what we can imagine.

 “I hate history,” Viva said, her sweet eyes clouded. “Why do we have to learn history?”

 “Because those that don’t learn history are doomed to repeat it*,” I said. “And because it still influences who you are today. You are descended from slaves. Do you realize how strong your ancestors had to be, physically and emotionally, spiritually – to survive that? That blood is in your veins.”

 “That’s true. But still, I can’t wait until this month is over,” Viva said.

“It’s not easy,” I said. “I know, it’s tough.”

 “I still can’t understand how people could be so mean to other people just based on the color of their skin – how they thought we were inferior,” Viva said. “I mean, they thought slaves were stupid, but how would they do if they got stolen away from their families and taken somewhere they didn’t speak the language?”

 “They had to think that way to justify it,” I said. “They had to see slaves as animals, as less than human, to justify what they were doing to them.”

 “That’s messed up,” said Viva. “Especially because you take someone like Frederick Douglass – he was a slave, and he was super smart. When his master found out that the master’s wife was teaching him to read, he got beaten. Who does that?!”

 “You see what they were willing to go through to get an education?” I said. “It was a big deal just to be able to read and write. Slaves weren’t supposed to be educated. We are really lucky to live in the age we do, as far as that goes.”

 "Yeah, I see what you mean. If they could see what we know now, it would blow their minds,” Viva said.

 Yes, indeed. I honestly love these conversations as Viva begins to see the world in all its messy complications. I think it is important for her to learn the journey of this country and how it is part of a larger global journey and that our struggles with bias and prejudice are far from over, here and across the world.  

I love that girl. What an honor to be along for the ride.

* Which I knew I was paraphrasing, but naturally I mis-quoted. What George Santayana wrote (in The Life of Reason, 1905) was: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” On par with, “You can’t understand where you’re going until you know where you’ve been.”

Summer, summer, summertime…

It’s summer, and that means it will be hot.

If it’s hot, there will be swimming.

If there’s swimming, hair gets wet.

If hair gets wet and you are the parent of the person who’s swimming, that means your kid’s hair dries out.

If, furthermore, you are the parent of a black girl, that means you have to deal with the question of whether or not to get your child’s hair “braided up” for summer.  Perhaps your cornrowing skills are not up to par, or perhaps you don’t feel up to a five-hour marathon braiding session.
 
If you consult your mother-in-law on this (who is not against the hot comb, on which you have agreed to disagree, so there’s your baseline right there), she will tell you to take your child to her stylist to let her cornrow your child’s hair and “add some hair.”

Barring this, she will tell you to “grease up that child’s head” with “that green grease” to protect it from the chlorine, the drying out, and the fuzziness.

You may, at this point, bite your tongue and just flat twist your child’s hair up against her head and hope for the best. Get yourself a glass of lemonade and kick back. It’s your summer too, after all.

Rockin' It

Following up on my last post: on Saturday, Viva got her hair trimmed and re-done in a half-twisted, half-out chunky 'fro. She totally rocks it. She was really happy with it and then on Tuesday some little girl at camp told her that her hair looked nappy. 

Now, you know what? Her hair is nappy. I don't have a problem with that. As with many words that should be non-offensive but have become negative because of how they are used, it was the way she said it that I have a problem with. Like nappy is the worst thing it could be. Like nappy is synonymous with ugly. I am not teaching my kid that she should hate what God gave her.

Look at the picture again. And try and tell me that my child--my smart, funny, kind and sociable kid--should be made to feel ugly. Some people drink a bit too much Haterade. And self-Haterade is the worst kind.

I'm off to see if I can find a "Happy to be Nappy" T-shirt. Wish me luck.

My Baby is a Maverick

My Viva is 8 years old. She is bigger than she has ever been, but she is still, in the scheme of things, a little girl. She often shows such maturity and a sensibility beyond her years that I forget she is still quite small yet.


This weekend, after I took her box braids out on Saturday, she wore her hair “wild” on Sunday. At first she was rocking a Macy Gray-style ‘fro, but then she styled her hair so it fell across her forehead. “I want to have rock star hair!” she said. I noticed her hair could use a trim and some conditioning (she’s been swimming a lot this summer and her hair is drier than usual), but no harm hanging around the house or going to Target like that. However, on Sunday evening, which is usually Hair Night, she told me in no uncertain terms that she wanted to wear her hair “out” to camp the next day.


“Ooooh,” said Sweet Dub. “I don’t know about that.”


“Honey, tomorrow is a swim day,” I said. “Do you really want to go with your hair out? It might not look the way you want it to when you come out of the pool.”


“I don’t care,” said Viva.


“Kids might make fun of you if you wear your hair wild,” Sweet Dub said.


“I don’t care,” said Viva. “I like my hair. It’s cool.”


After a bit more discussion, we agreed that she should wear her hair how she wants. I have been a big cheerleader for natural hair over Viva’s lifetime, so evidently it somehow soaked in. She very rarely wears an Afro; her preference is for two-strand twists so she can shake her head and feel her hair swing around. I was pleased she stood her ground, but a little apprehensive. After we concluded our conversation, I said to Sweet Dub privately, “I have a feeling I’ll be doing hair tomorrow night.”


The next day, I dampened Viva’s hair, put some moisturizing crème on it and sent her off to camp. When Ceeya and I went to pick her up at the end of the day, she was standing off to the side of the gym, by herself. She gathered her things and as we were walking out, she said, “Mom, I had a horrible day,” and then she started crying.


Kids made fun of her hair all day. She cried as we walked home, and she continued crying as we sat with her dad and talked about it. Not only did a variety of kids (most of whom were bigger than she is, since this camp admits kids age 7 and up) make fun of her hair throughout the day, but one of her closest friends told her that her hair looked ugly. (This is a kid who usually is at our house after camp literally 4-5 days per week. She is the daughter of a single mom, one of Sweet Dub’s best friends from high school who works until 6 in Santa Monica and can’t pick her up on time. We consider this child family, one of Viva’s “play cousins.” She eats dinner with us several nights a week, we are her emergency contact for the camp, etc. I could not believe that in this instance she would not have Viva’s back. Yes, I am still furious at this 7-year-old child. It is not rational. Let me back off this tangent before I really get going.)


We all cuddled in a pile on the couch, Viva’s beautiful eyes shiny with tears as she let all the stored-up heartache of the day spill forth.


“This is not your problem, this is their problem. It says more about them than it says about you. Your hair is beautiful and you can wear it how you want,” I said.


“You don’t have to do what everyone else does,” Sweet Dub said. “You can be different. It’s people like you who change the world. Who cares what they think?”


“You crying? Why Coco* is crying?” Ceeya said, patting her sister’s leg.


(What is really infuriating to me is that the vast majority of the kids in the camp are also black. “The same flipping hair grows out of their heads!” I said to Sweet Dub later in my Mama Bear rage. “They don’t even know what their own friggin’ natural texture looks like!”)


After she dried her tears and blew her nose, Viva said, “I’m going to wear my hair like this for the rest of the week. Because I LIKE IT.”


She is badass. I wish I had that confidence at 8. And I’m proud of her.

* Coco is her nickname for Viva. This in itself is a long story.

Love you, love you, love you

Sweet Dub is out tonight, taking photographs for a client. I am home with the kids, who seem to be doing everything possible to tap dance on my last nerve. I lose my temper more than once. I finally banish them to their room to play so I can have 10 minutes of peace and that is when I realize I am on the verge of tears and have been all day.

My grandmother, you see, is passing over into the other realm. I have just spent the weekend with her--a weekend where she was not once conscious--and it was very, very tough. She is in the phase which I am told is called "active dying," so she is very agitated, raking at the bedclothes and wearing an expression of acute pain or distress. She doesn't open her eyes.

My mom says that this morning she spoke. My mom was able to tell her she loved her, and my grandmother said she loved her too. I am glad they at least had this moment, as my grandmother has been rather disoriented in the last week and at one point was convinced my mom had tricked her. She became very fretful, saying she knew there must be a phone around here somewhere. My sister asked her who she wanted to call, and my grandma said she wanted to call my grandpa (who passed away 7 years ago). I'm not sure what she thought my mom had tricked her about, but it's funny that she was going to tell on her to my grandpa.

My mother was 19 when she had my sister, and 21 when she had me, and 22 when she took us and left my dad. My grandmother was 41 when she became a grandmother. When my mom left my dad, she moved in with my grandparents for a while. My mom was an only child, and my grandma had always wanted a houseful of kids. My mother likes to say that she had my grandma's other kids for her. All I know is that my grandma loved us to pieces and she was in constant motion, usually doing something for one of us. She would play leapfrog with us, and build snowmen with us, and when she wasn't doing that, she was cooking something obscenely delicious (and with the benefit of hindsight, ridiculously fattening).

In time we moved out to a series of apartments as my mom went back to college, but we were never more than 15 minutes away from my grandparents at any time. We were expected at their house every weekend, even after my mom remarried. My grandmother took early retirement in her 50s. If I got sick at school, it was Grandma who would come and get me and worry over me tenderly. My grandmother loved us all loudly and with great ferocity. She is not a tall woman (we are the same height, 5-feet and one-inch on a good day), but she has always been formidable. She expected a lot of us, but she expected a lot of herself--something I didn't recognize until I was well until adulthood.

My grandma, Muriel, grew up in a small town in a very segregated area of Virginia. She is a very fair-skinned black woman who could pass for white if that were the road she chose. In her small town, everyone knew her family and she was known to be "colored," so she had to sit in the back of the local bus and when in town, couldn't sit at the counter at the local diner or drink at particular water fountains. She met my grandpa while she was waiting tables at her cousin's restaurant during World War II. He was a very handsome light-skinned man on shore leave from the Navy. "I don't know what he saw in me," she has said on more than one occasion, but if you see pictures of her from this era, she is a beauty. She loved to laugh and loved to talk. His family were New Englanders and very reserved, so I can see how he would be captivated. I would imagine she was kind of sassy.

Because of her upbringing, I believe, my grandmother was very quick to take offense. This trait seemed to become a bit diluted over the years and I think she began to cultivate some patience and tolerance with people, but I was always amazed at how much she could read into a situation where I would not have come away with the same opinion. Her early experiences really colored (sorry, can't think of a better word) the lens through which she viewed the world for the rest of her life.

I never had any doubt that I was loved. My grandparents' house (which we always referred to as "Grandma's House") was a place of order and calm, of fun and laughter, and a veritable cocoon of love against the chaotic home we lived in. Every single time we would leave the back door to go home, whether bundled up against the snow or heading out into a muggy mosquito-laden, sun-baked driveway, my grandmother would squeeze each of us tight. "I love you, love you, love you," she'd crow, every syllable dripping with affection, and we would yell back in a cacophony of squeaky shrieks how much we loved her as we were hustled into the car.

Tonight I apologized to Viva for not being myself, for yelling, for not wanting to play. "I'm just very, very sad," I said. She put her arm around me. "I know, Mom," she said. "I know how you feel."

Joy Inside My Tears

I’ve been a bit down lately. Work has been stressful; dealing with my Nanna’s illness has been stressful, etc. So I’ve been trying to Turn My Frown Upside Down! by doing things that make me happy, like listening to fun music. Long story short: this morning, we were listening to Stevie Wonder in the car (Songs in the Key of Life), more specifically “Black Man.” If you haven’t heard the song, well, how to describe it? It is more than 8 minutes long, for one thing, and it was written in the mid-70s, at a time in Stevie’s life where he had become hugely commercially successful and also extremely politically conscious.

This is not the strongest song on the album, but I appreciate what Stevie is trying to do here – he is basically giving a shout-out to all the different races that make up America, and describing how individuals of different colors all made significant contributions to our culture. Sample lyrics:

Heart surgery
Was first done successfully
By a black man (Dr Daniel Hale Williams)

Friendly man who died
But helped the pilgrims to survive
Was a red man (Squanto)

Farm workers rights
Were lifted to new heights
By a brown man (Cesar Chavez)

Incandescent light
Was invented to give sight
By the white man (Thomas Edison)

We pledge allegiance
All our lives
To the magic colors
Red, blue and white
But we all must be given
The liberty that we defend
For with justice not for all men
History will repeat again
It's time we learned
This World Was Made For All Men

Okay, so putting aside for the moment the gender exclusion of the lyrics (and the un-PCness of references to the red and yellow man – yikes), I was trying to explain the core of the song to Viva. I told her why at the time it was written the song was important, and how Stevie was trying to counteract the beliefs of some people in the world who think bad things about whole groups of people simply based on the color of their skin or what country they come from. “That’s called racism,” I said. “Have you ever heard of that word?”

“No,” Viva said. For a second I hesitated. Should I even open up this can of worms? But I want her to know she can talk to me about anything, even the hard stuff, so I continued. The conversation segued into a discussion of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his work and struggle.

“I bet Martin Luther King would be happy that Barack Obama is president,” Viva said. Oh, my girl – I just love her so.

I said, “Yes, I think he would be very excited, you’re right. This was one of the things he worked for, so that people who look like Barack Obama can have important jobs like being president. That is why it was such a huge deal – you remember how Daddy and I cried when he got elected? It’s because we were so happy to see this day come.”

And I swear to you, I got a lump in my throat and started crying a little as I was saying it. Sometimes I really miss my grandpa, and for whatever reason the election makes me think of him – I’m sad that he didn’t live to see a black man become president. And now, my grandma is ill, and that makes me sadder.

So, yeah, score 1 for substantive morning car conversation, but score 0 for helping my mood lift!

At any rate, I had pushed aside the morning’s conversation and then I happened to read a post at Anti-Racist Parent today, and yes. Tami pretty much said what I was feeling, way better than I could have said it. The Website name will be changing to “Love Isn’t Enough” next week, and here’s why.

Now, that lifted my mood.

I'm Playing the Race Card!

How nuts is this?

Harvard Professor Arrested

CAMBRIDGE, Mass., July 20 (UPI) -- A prominent black Harvard professor is facing disorderly conduct charges after his arrest while trying to get into his own home in Cambridge, Mass., police say. Continued…

Well-known black Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates, Jr. locked himself out of his own house one fine afternoon a few days ago and was trying to get back in. A neighbor saw him trying to open the door and called the police. By the time they arrived, he was already inside his house and was able to provide ID corroborating who he was. The Cambridge police then arrested him, apparently because he was being “loud and tumultuous!”

Can you imagine? You lock yourself out of your house. It’s around lunchtime. You’re hungry, maybe you need to go to the bathroom, maybe you left some crucial notes inside the house and you need to get going to a class or a presentation. You are frustrated. You go around the house trying to figure out a way in. While you are in the midst of this process, you become increasingly frustrated. Perhaps you curse a little bit, bang your fist against the door, slam your body against the door.

Have you ever been locked out? I have, and that’s pretty much my reaction.

But wait, somehow you actually get inside the house. What a relief! Pour yourself a cool drink, make your way down the hall to use the toilet and – suddenly, you are confronted by the police. In your house! What the hell? You are a prominent Harvard scholar, nearly 60, and you happen to be African-American. The police tell you they had a report of a breaking and entering and they ask for your identification. You are in your own home! This reignites your frustration, which spills over into a belligerent attitude toward the cops, which is not well-received. You are thinking to yourself, all my fucking accomplishments and people still just see a n---er.

Whoo, the fury.

I don’t know if at that point he knew that a neighbor had called it in. But that could only make it worse. I mean, someone is watching your house closely enough that they think someone is breaking in, but apparently in your daily comings and goings, year in and year out, they haven’t looked at you closely enough that as a neighbor, they realize it’s your own house you’re trying to get into?

You know, I realize Los Angeles is not the bastion of racial equality, but stories like this sure make me glad I don’t live in the Boston area anymore.

Interested to hear more on this as it develops…

More Than Skin Deep

Is my baby too white?

I am not talking about the actual baby, Cily, who is in point of fact, rather fair-complexioned. I am talking about Miss Viva, my firstborn baby, she of the gorgeous brown skin which seems to glow from within.

Viva goes to a multiracial, multicultural private school during the year (it doesn’t bill itself as such, but that is one of the reasons we chose it). Most of her closest school friends are boys, and many of them are black. When we got together recently with four other families – including the boys and their younger sisters – Sweet Dub noticed that all of the kids sounded the same. They have this kind of California middle-class accent. “You can tell none of those kids are from the ‘hood,” he said.

“Well, no, they’re not,” I said.

“Poor Viva,” he said, laughing. His mom says that when she takes Viva to see relatives from out of town (Texas), they all comment on how “proper” (not-Texan?) she speaks. “I guess my mom is right, but what’s wrong with that?” he said. “At least she’s not coming home from school dancing the Stank Leg.”

As my grandma would say, “Whoo, chile – let me tell yuh.” One of our friends, K, has a daughter a year older than Viva. Started out in private preschool and then in kindergarten moved to a public school in Baldwin Hills, a predominantly black area of LA. She came home from school one day and showed her mom she had learned how to do the Stank Leg on the play yard. “Thank you, LAUSD,” K said sarcastically. Oh man, I was falling over laughing. Thank God I’m old and don’t have to keep up with this mess. If I was 16 I would have to know how to do the Stank Leg!

(By the way, apparently to do the Stank Leg all you have to do is act like you got a cramp in your leg and lean. What on earth?)

The bookend to this is that last week Viva came home from camp, which skews considerably less multiculti than (but just as solidly middle to upper-middle class as) her school, and started singing “to the left, to the left,” and pulling some Beyonce moves. I shot a questioning look at Sweet Dub and he grinned. “You know what? The white kids taught her that,” he said to me, out of earshot.

Well, of course, because she certainly isn’t learning it at home. That must be because we are not letting Viva listen to any black music*, according to his mom. She has come to this conclusion because as she says, Viva dances like a white girl (!!). You know how Viva dances? She dances like a 6-year-old who wants to be a rock star, which is what she is.

So again, is my baby too white?

Or asked another way, is she not “black enough”?

What makes me nuts about all this (oh God, where to begin?) is this implication that we are making Viva into an Oreo, a sell-out, that we are somehow (deliberately!) whitewashing her. You know what? Sorry, but I don’t buy it. At the end of the day, my child is a black girl. Regardless of what she sounds like or how she moves, that is what people see.

I think about how I was raised, in a predominantly white lower-middle-class neighborhood, with a “mulatto”/mixed-race/light-skinned or whatever-you-call-her mom and a white stepfather, and I know that baggage from my upbringing automatically makes me defensive in this regard. I was not white enough for the white kids in my neighborhood, despite being light enough to “pass.” I was not dark enough for the black kids in the junior high I was bussed to – one girl constantly picked fights with me because, as she said, “You think you’re cute.” (It was junior high! I was in my awkward phase! I totally did not think I was cute.) But as I know now, this says more about them than it does about me.

And I know that this is true, too with Viva. She is a happy kid. She is proud of being brown. She knows she’s pretty and smart and strong and fast and that she’s very creative with an incredible imagination. She is pretty tough and self-confident. Sometimes she cares what people say about her and sometimes not (especially when she knows it’s not true). My mother-in-law grew up in a different time, when she wasn’t made to feel proud of being brown, and then lived through the Civil Rights Era, when she was told to say it loud, she’s black and she’s proud. It’s complicated. I think she is still struggling with reconciling these two things.

Viva can be, if she wants, a black girl rocker. She’s leaning toward electric guitar. I think that would be cool. And if she’s a black girl rocker who happens to speak “proper,” where’s the harm in that?


* Completely untrue. We listen to a variety of music but as Sweet Dub says, “We can’t listen to hip-hop** in front of her!” The stuff we listen to (and we don’t listen to the same artists) has some pretty strong language – profanity and the like - and some of it is sexual, which even if it’s couched euphemistically I don’t want Viva singing along to. That is a post in and of itself and I’ll get back to it someday.

** And it’s not just hip-hop. Okay, I’ll stop.

Be a Light Unto the Nations

On Friday, Viva came home with a notice in her backpack that International Day will be held on April 24th. Oh, how nice – what a great opportunity for the kids to learn about different cultures, etc. In the past, students at her school have been given the option of wearing traditional dress or bringing traditional food if they choose.

But not this year. This year, the school is having an International Talent Show and requiring kids to participate in it. The school is also requiring a monetary donation of $10 per kid. The school is also requiring each kid to bring a dish from their "home country." The school also wants parents to donate cultural items to a “mini-museum,” and wants parents to participate both in the talent show and the all-day events. What the fizzle?

[Commence rant.] If you are African-American, this whole thing is just annoying. First of all, what country are we to choose? Sweet Dub says, “America. She is American. Send some damn apple pie.”

I say, to be even more obnoxious, “She allegedly has Cherokee on both sides. Maybe I should send some cornbread. Or maybe I’ll send some maize.”

I’m not up on the AIM doings, but I do know that the Cherokee are a separate nation. Why not claim that as our country?

I have no idea which country or countries in Africa we hail from. I also have no idea which country or countries in Europe we hail from. I’ve heard rumors of Spanish descent on my side, and the Blah Blahs’ family surnames are all English or Irish in origin, but as we all know, that doesn’t mean we are necessarily related to the people who gave us those surnames. I’m Cherokee on my dad’s side and Gingaskin on my mom’s (the Gingaskin are actually a tri-racial tribe from the eastern shore of Virginia). Since the Gingaskins were terminated as a tribe by being absorbed as free “mulatto” or “colored” folk on the census rolls back in the day, I really have no idea what food they ate. Nor were they ever recognized as a separate nation, never mind one of the Five Civilized Tribes who are way more well-documented.

Don’t even get me started on the talent show.

Nonetheless, I think this is a good opportunity to talk with Viva about her heritage and appreciation for all the different peoples that make up the world. And I’m sure she’ll learn something. The question is, what can we teach her classmates about her nation?

Weigh in. I’m interested to hear what you think.



P.S. Can I also just say that I find it annoying that the school is having International Day during the same week as Earth Day? And yet they have no Earth Day events planned. Why choose a random day to celebrate when you have an internationally-recognized eco-conscious day already on the calendar? Save the earth or there will be no nations. For heaven’s sake!

A floating accumulation of miscellaneous stuff

I don’t have anything deep to say today, just a bunch of random observations. Let’s dive in, shall we?

Seriously? One of the Best. Headlines. Ever:

Early Humans Had Nutcracker Jaws

As an Anthropology major, I salute you, Yahoo! News!

The Golden Age

For years, Sweet Dub has complained about car commercials never showing a black man in the driver’s seat. I admit I had never noticed this because I am not insane, but once it was pointed out to me, I realized he was right. Finally, over time, we actually began to see black men driving the car in some of the car commercials. This weekend, Sweet Dub was watching the post-Super Bowl TV offerings and said, “Hey, look – a black man driving the car. Now you see it all the time…[thinks for a moment] Black President, black coach wins the Super Bowl, and black men driving the cars – after all these years of being the boogeyman, this might be our time. It’s the Golden Age of the African American male, honey.”

And with that, Cily spit up all over her daddy’s hand.

“There’s your Golden Age,” I said to him. “How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

A Musical Interlude

Yesterday, on the way to school/work, I eased up to a red light and happened to look in my rearview mirror. The guy in the Honda CRV behind me was pulling a guitar into his lap. Because you know, what better way to pass the time waiting for the light to turn green than to strum a few bars to yourself. I was about to make some snarky comment like “lost on the way to the Lilith Fair,” but even I don’t know where I was going with that.

The World is a Rainbow

Last night, a very dear friend of ours, Lady E, was in town for business and we had her over for dinner. (I know! On a Monday night! We frickin’ rock.) (P.S. We ordered Indian food. What, you thought I was going to cook?) Lady E is black and her husband is white. She was telling us that her oldest child B. is very race-conscious and is always describing people by their color. “You know that book, Shades of Black? It describes all the different colors of blackness, like you’re yellow like popcorn, you’re brown like a pretzel – you know what I’m talking about?” Evidently they talk a lot about race at their house, and it doesn’t hurt that they live in Oakland, right near Berkeley. She jokes about her daughter being a little militant for a 5-year-old. But anyway, yes, I had heard of this book and I felt a tinge of guilt for not having a copy of it because I do try to show Viva books that validate her experience, yada yada yada. And about two seconds later I got over it, because God knows Viva has a very strong self-concept and is very proud of being brown – and that didn’t come out of a book.

Later, after Sweet Dub had dropped her off at her hotel, he said to me, “That book she was talking about? That is the last thing we need.” As it turns out, B. pointing out what color people are is not always welcome. I know! With all the complications surrounding race in this country, who’da thunk?

We’re All Friends Here

Viva will be turning six in just a couple of months and she is already demanding to know what we are doing for a party. I won’t go into our labored and lengthy discussions, but want to put this out there: do you feel it is acceptable to not invite all the kids from school to a party that is not held on school grounds? Is it ever okay to invite just the kids she’s friendly with? And where does one draw the line?

Sweet Dub and I are divided on this issue based on previous experience. I won’t bias your response by telling you my opinion. What do you think?



**This post has been edited to correct the misspelling of Super Bowl. What, I thought it was all one word. I don't know from football.

Black Woman Here No More

Adieu, Maternity Leave. As of yesterday, I am back at work. I have a new, larger office with nice furniture and, because one of the senior therapists here just retired unexpectedly for health reasons, for the entire month of January I have a Reserved Parking Space (RSP), which I am capitalizing so you will understand what a Big Deal it is.

The only problem with the RSP is that no one seems to know which space it actually is.

Our organization has four reserved parking spaces on the first floor of the parking structure, and they all are labeled with the name of the organization only – not with the name of the person who is to park there. Since I don’t want to cause any ill will by parking in someone else’s space, this is a bit of a dilemma. So today, I went to the parking attendant supervisor guy (PASG) and explained the situation and asked if he could tell me which space it is. “I’m parked in 138, but I don’t know if that’s her space,” I said.

The PASG, whose first language is definitely not English, said, “Black woman?”

“Yes,” I said. Vice President with advanced degrees, but he doesn’t know that.

“Black woman here no more?” he said.

“That’s right, she’s retired,” I said.

“Oh, black woman here no more,” he mused. Then he gestured and said, “Come on.”

We went down the ramp to look at the spaces, which he identified as “Nissan Xterra, BMW, and Mercedes.”

Since Dr. Black Woman Here No More drives a Mercedes, we determined I was in the wrong spot. However, Nissan Xterra, also known as White Guy On Vacation, is a suitable spot for the moment and I don’t have to move my car.

It's a melting pot! No, it's a mosaic! No, it's a rainbow...

Poll: Whites, blacks in U.S. disagree about prejudice

Wow, shocking news. These folks truly have their finger on the pulse.

The highlight of the article for me is:

Kelly Edmondson, 34, of Cincinnati, is a white Democrat enthusiastic about backing Obama. …She cares for her two sets of young twins during the day and teaches college at night; most of her students are black. In the survey, Edmondson said positive words such as "hardworking" and "intelligent" describe most blacks "very well." She said a few negative traits, such as "lazy" and "irresponsible," apply "somewhat well" to most blacks.

In a telephone interview, Edmondson said those attributes apply equally to all races. [emphasis added]

Well, yes. Exactly. I wonder what percentages a different poll would come up with – a poll which asked people their opinions of what traits the general American public shares, particularly if it were one that instead focused on class. I would imagine that there would be a fair proportion of people of all races who would characterize low-income people as "lazy" and "irresponsible." (And I'm not saying that I agree with them, I'm just saying certain leading questions are going to get a pretty predictable response. And often I think that people who do not have much exposure to people of color form their opinions based on what they see in the media - wait, this is a tangent that could comprise a whole separate post, so let me get back on point.)

This ties in, somewhat, with what I've been experiencing in the past couple of months. In our most recent house search, we have pretty much given up on the areas in and around where we live, which is where we have been looking for the past several months. We’ve started looking in a middle- to upper-middle class predominantly African-American neighborhood, even though that would mean a longer commute for both of us, because (1) we’d be closer to certain family members and friends (including Viva’s friends) that we see a lot; (2) quite simply, you get more for your money over there; (3) it’s a nice neighborhood, quiet with lots of trees and close to a major park; and (4) with certain addresses, we can actually get Viva into a decent public school.

I am surprised by the number of people who have said, “Why do you want to move over THERE?” and yet seem to think it is perfectly reasonable to expect us to look into neighborhoods far east of us or deep in the San Fernando Valley, which not only are further away in terms of miles, but also have a very small percentage of African-American residents. I am not surprised, but disappointed, by people who ask me if I’ve considered areas I’ve never heard of and then when I ask, “But are there any black people there?” look crestfallen and say, “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. I guess not.”

The issue is that no one asks "Why do you want to move over THERE?”about any other neighborhood where we've been looking. Hmm...if it only happened once or twice, I wouldn't think anything of it. But most people seem to be surprised that we would consider moving to a mostly black area.

One of the things that attracts me to the neighborhoods where we have been looking up until now is that there is a diversity of people – black, white, Asian, Latino, South Asian, etc. These are mid-city neighborhoods, and since we both work in the mid-city area, it makes sense for us to look there. However, this has not been fruitful, so we had to expand our horizons. One of the things that is crucial for us is to get Viva into a fairly mixed school which will also give her a good education. Fortunately, there is one in the neighborhood we’re looking at that she would be eligible to go to that is pretty balanced between white and black, with both Latino and Asian thrown in for good measure, and it has decent test scores. Neither of us is crazy about sending her to a school that is predominantly anything – whether white, black, Latino, or Asian. That is a major issue for both of us, and one which we have discussed extensively.

On the housing search: we haven’t yet found a place. Yeah. We would like to move during the first weekend of October, since the baby will be here at the end of October and I can’t imagine moving after a C-section, with a newborn. Our landlord has already contacted us about moving some of his stuff into the storage area. He clearly needs to move ASAP, which isn’t helping matters. All I can say is that when we know, you’ll know. I can’t say anymore about it at this point because it just stresses me out. As my boss said, “You’re nesting! And you have nowhere to nest!”

Yeah, it’s like that. Major suckage.

A Different Kind of Black List

Ooooh, I just found out about this today: THE BLACK LIST: VOLUME ONE.

In a new kind of living portraiture, a remarkable group of African-American notables share candid stories and revealing insights into the struggles, triumphs and joys of black life in the U.S. when THE BLACK LIST: VOLUME ONE debuts MONDAY, AUG. 25 (9p.m. ET/PT), exclusively on HBO.

I'm totally setting my DVR since Lord knows, I may be passed out on the couch by 9 p.m. But I'm hoping it's better than that recent series on CNN which, or so I've heard, pretty much focused on everything that's wrong in Black America. I realize the media feeds on and thus propagates fear, but was it too much to ask for a nuanced picture? Now, I am not sure why THE BLACK LIST chose to interview only "notables" in this, its first volume -- seems to me they could intersperse celebrity segments with other folks -- but hopefully they will remedy that with subsequent volumes. I'm interested to hear what they have to say.

And no, it hasn't escaped me that they're airing this on the first night of the Democratic National Convention, when for the first time ever a person of African descent is being nominated by his party to represent said party as their candidate for President of these United States. By the way, Michelle Obama will be speaking at probably about the same time that THE BLACK LIST is airing. Hmmm. I wonder if she'll set her DVR?

Updated to add: Oh, yeah, and a few new posts up over here.

Color Confusion

Hold on to your hats:

In South Africa, Chinese is the New Black

A high court in South Africa ruled on Wednesday that Chinese-South Africans will be reclassified as “black,” a term that includes black Africans, Indians and others who were subject to discrimination under apartheid. As a result of this ruling, ethnically Chinese citizens will be able to benefit from government affirmative action policies aimed at undoing the effects of apartheid.

You know, I've said it before and I'll say it again: race is just a social construct. As a woman of color, I embrace my new "black" brethren (and sistren, O yes). If anything, this ruling just underscores the inherent ridiculousness of the whole apartheid system and makes the whole concept look even more ass-backwards, if that were possible.

(Is it possible I haven't posted in ten days? Insanely busy with a 500-person event last week at work, just trying to get caught up. My apologies!)

Spleen, Venting Of

This morning, while I was waiting An Eternity for Viva to get out of the bathroom, I turned on the TV to find a decent kids’ show that I had recorded (for some reason, at the time when I am usually in the shower and Viva is eating breakfast, there is a dearth of shows which catch her interest or are age-appropriate – she is in this weird netherworld where the preschool shows are too babyish, but the shows she would love to make me let her watch are too old for her. I end up taping a conglomeration of shows at various times when we are not home so I have something to keep her from standing outside the shower and screaming the same made-up song at me thirty times in a row). At this time of day, Good Morning America was on, and George Stephanopoulos was pontificating about the West Virginia primary.

Ordinarily I have no issue with George Stephanopoulos – I mean, he is so cute, you could just put him in your pocket and button it up if you didn’t want to listen to him. But GMA host Robin Roberts asked him what stood out in this primary and he responded, “Race has played more of a factor in West Virginia than in any other contest we’ve seen so far.”

He then cited the following numbers from an exit poll of “white voters” in the West VA primary:

2 out of 10 said race was a factor in how they voted
8 out of 10 voted for Hillary Clinton
3 out of 10 would support Obama vs. McCain

“This shows a real problem for Barack Obama,” he said.

“This shows a real problem for AMERICA!” I shouted at the television. Prejudice is alive and well, and we can point it out, but let’s not address it head-on – why no, let’s just keep it moving. “God, I can’t stand it,” I said, and added some choice words.

Of course, that made Viva come out of the bathroom. If Mama asks you to wrap it up and eat your breakfast, no. But if you hear Mama swearing under her breath, by all means, come on out!

P.S. New post up at Belly Overwhelmed. I'm not making any promises that it's better than this one.

Off the Deep End

I am having trouble accessing Blogger today (including comments), so I am moblogging.  Also, my apologies to Liz over at Los Angelista -- I have tried responding to your comment a couple of times, but no go! I'll try again tomorrow...

Nearly 60 percent of black children can't swim

New study underlies efforts to prevent drowning, boost sports participation

 

A recent survey by USA Swimming found that 58% of African-American children can't swim, and that Black children drown at a rate almost three times the overall rate.

 

Now, I can swim, but I don't like to. I almost drowned in a YMCA swimming pool when I was four during "free swim" time at summer camp, and ever since then, I hate being in water over my head. Sweet Dub swims like he was born to it, and knowing of my fear of the water, he was determined to teach Viva how to swim (and how to LOVE to swim) from a very young age. 

 

At the outset, Viva was fearless. She would launch off the side of the pool and plunge right in, paddling around even when her teeth were chattering. She just didn't want to get out. And then, a couple of years ago, she started "learning" how to swim at day camp. And all of a sudden, she was not so fearless. Sweet Dub was furious. We don't know what exactly happened, but suddenly she did seem to be a bit dubious about the water. "They put the FEAR in her!" he howled angrily.

 

Not long after that, we moved from the apartment building where we had a pool at our disposal whenever we wanted it, and to a house where there is a yard, but no pool aside from the kiddie pool we throw out there and fill with the hose.

 

I recently took Viva over to a friend's for a playdate. They live in a luxury apartment building, and they have a pool. I watched Viva and her friend swimming around, and I realized her friend is hugely confident in the water – she is not quite five, yet swims quite ably from the shallow to the deep end and back. Viva, on the other hand, is constantly getting water up her nose, swallowing water, and refusing to get her face wet.

 

Now: last year, when we went to Hawaii, we bought Viva a lifejacket. This is because we knew we would be swimming in the open ocean, with a strong undertow. Viva now insists on wearing this lifejacket every time she swims, whether in a pool or the open water. It is a security blanket. I hate it, although I haven't commented on it much beyond, "Are you sure you want to take it? You're such a good swimmer I don't think you need it." Viva always assures me that she does in fact need it.

 

An added wrinkle: the African-American hair. Viva has lots and lots of hair. It is naturally kinky and naturally very dry. The chlorine really does a job on her hair and makes it even more fragile. It makes it harder to comb through and more subject to breakage. I do not need an extra struggle over her hair (yet another reason for her to hate swimming). This year, I would love to get her into a good swimming program, but I'm considering getting her hair braided to protect it. 

 

Sweet Dub looks concerned. "Are you sure you really want to do that?" he says. "They just braid their hair so tight. I know I've seen little girls come back from having their hair done and their face looks like this–" and he stretches his face back with his hands in that universal symbol for "bad facelift."  "And then we'll have to listen to her whining about how her head hurts."

 

Oh my God. Do you see?

 

I am trying to make sure my child will not drown, and if getting her hair braided tight* is the price we must pay, then so be it.

 

* Although I am not down with the dreaded traction alopecia.  I don't want my baby to end up bald.

 

---

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The Low Road

Something happened recently that made me very uncomfortable. Not only am I uncomfortable with what happened, but I am unhappy with my reaction to it. What do you do when you are directly confronted by racism? Do you react differently when it is not directed at you?

Let me lay it out for you. The company I work for recently held an all-day, all-staff workshop. These days we talk a lot about cultural competency, and one of the themes of the day was cultural community – which communities do you belong to, which labels do you give yourself, what assumptions do you make about other folks based on what they look like? The company I work for seems to attract a very diverse group, and we work all over the city at different sites. For the latter reason, it is very easy to be seated at one of these workshops with someone you have never seen before.

It was an interesting day, with some unexpected twists. And I’m glad that the “powers that be” didn’t shy away from having us talk about this stuff. Is it such a bad thing to have a conversation about race (as Barack Obama encourages us to do)?

During the day, we had the chance to break out briefly into one-on-one duos, wherein each participant had to answer a race/culture-related question. During one of these time-limited exchanges, I was seated with an African-American woman. The issue we were told to pose to each other was, “Describe a situation in which you have made an assumption about someone based on the community they come from.” This woman was pretty rigid in her body language and did not turn toward me when I sat down. Who knows what was going on with her, but my first impression was that she was not open to this whole concept.

When I posed the question to her, she told me a story about how she was crossing the street, in the crosswalk near work, and she had the right of way. A car turned right into the crosswalk and barely avoided hitting her. The driver, an Asian man, then threw his hands up in the air at her, in the universal signal for “what the hell are you doing?,” which is rather bizarre considering she was in the right, but certainly I’ve seen people do similar, non-sense-making, rude things while driving. She then responded with a very racist remark which I will not repeat here but which had to do with his eyes.

I couldn’t believe it. “Wh-well, wha—what did he SAY?” I stammered, completely aghast, and at the same time, completely and absolutely positive that I couldn’t call her on it.

“He didn’t say anything. What could he say? He almost hit me!” she said, and then, “He probably didn’t understand what I said anyway. He probably didn’t speak English.”

So there we were, at a table of 12 people, in a room full of 300-some people, each doing their own thing, sharing their own experiences, and I realized that (a) she was certainly not going to accept any criticism from me, since I appear white, (b) she may not even classify what she said as racist, and (c) that no one else had heard what she said.

“And how do you feel about how you handled it?” I said, since I couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “Wow, that was really incredibly racist!” and I knew that wouldn’t fly.

Ladies and Gentlemen: she shrugged. And then the moderator had us all get up and move to the next person, and the next question, and the overall feeling of “Kumbaya” in the room kept going, even if soured for me.

I’m wondering if anyone else in the room experienced this.

And I’m wondering what else I could have said, in retrospect, aside from “My best friend is Asian and my brother-in-law is Asian and my nephews are half-Asian, you racist ass!”

How do you respond to comments like this, particularly in the work environment when you’re trying to maintain professionalism?