Wild and “Free-ish”

Marian Wright Edelman: Training him how to walk, what to say, and how to act so he won’t seem like a threat. Teaching him that the burden of deflating stereotypes and reassuring other people’s ignorance will always fall on him, and while that isn’t fair, in some cases it may be the only way to keep him safe and alive.

 

Frances Cudjoe Waters: The clock is ticking, and my husband and I must prepare to have the same talk with them that our parents had with us: You are bright. You are funny and smart and sometimes silly. Your laughter and smiles fill up the room when you enter. And your warmth and your hugs fill my heart with more happiness and joy than any one person has a right to expect in one lifetime. You are capable of being anything you want to be in this life — even President of the United States. But when you walk out of the safety, protection and loving arms of our home, you are walking while black, and only our prayers can protect you then.

 

PlEASE, LET THEM RUN WILD AND FREE!

 

For both of my sons

“#truestory #trayvonmartin #unionsquare #millionhoodies”

I dont’ know how to credit twitter pics – but this was on my feed tonight.

This guy could be my biggie boy, Waffles. (OK, Waffles is only 19 – but have y’all seen Waffles lately? In a word, scruffy. Sorry pal, I know you’ll read this. And I love ya like crazy. You know I’m proud of  the man you are, in every way. Even if I wanna cut your hair and give you a razor. )

 

And yet, I don’t fret for Waffles safety.  I don’t NEED to advise him to walk with his hands visible, with his eyes alert and ahead of himself, with his head uncovered and his senses at calm attention. I don’t feel compelled to remind him to  always give off the air of being a ‘prospect, not a suspect.’ It’s ok if he runs across the neighborhood lawns or he and his pals ride bikes at 3 a.m. in the neighborhood because they are crazy boys trying to stay up for 48 hours. I don’t advise him about how to handle a traffic stop in his rusted out beast of a vehicle. I give him regular mom advice. (And plenty of it, rest assured) Let me restate: I give him regular WHITE MOM advice for her WHITE SON. This is our shared privilege. We haven’t earned this privilege, it is ours because we are white.

 

But this boy of mine, the little one, the one I call Blueberry, will need a different kind of regular ‘ol Mom advice. It will be infused with details I am still learning to provide — and with which I will need some help from those who live in skin like his.  He’ll need to know so much more. The “Kissing Hand”  his big brother gave him as he departed back to college from spring break won’t be enough to protect and inform my sweet youngest. Niether of us have that kissing magic.  We both wish we did. Our whole family wishes we did.

These are my sons. I love them. They are my heart. And I won’t be quiet about it.

 

Please, if you are not parenting children of color, read these and put an end to racial profiling, ingorance, and claims of colorblindness. If you are parenting children of color, read this to build your strategies and your resolve.

 

http://inamerica.blogs.cnn.com/2012/03/20/my-12-year-old-son-knows-he-could-be-trayvon/?hpt=hp_bn2 

 

http://blackandmarriedwithkids.com/2012/03/21/watch-and-pray-for-our-children 

 

http://ideas.time.com/2012/03/21/how-to-talk-to-young-black-boys-about-trayvon-martin/

 

Help me change the world for my sons. Help me change the world for BOTH of them. Help me raise my voice for justice.

 

I have no more words, and mine pale in the company of those who know so much more than I do – - but I have love – - and that love is fierce for my sons.  I will not be silent.

Twinkletoes in Cape Town

In January, middle biggie left. Again. Another biggie gone. Another biggie stretching out her wings and naming another place ‘home.’ Another place that Blueberry can name on the world map because someone he loves is there.

Twinkletoes is spending the spring semester studying at University of Cape Town, South Africa.

 I’m not gonna lie, Twinkletoes in Cape Town is pretty much the coolest thing on this year’s busy calendar. My cool cat kid is doing cool cat stuff. Here’s the update!

She’s taking 3 classes: Global Change Ecology, Astronomy and Xhosa.

She’s got a few clubs she’s joined: Ballroom, mountain and ski, diving (that would be SCUBA – she’ll get her diver certification), and a volunteer program for the township debating league.

I have a few comments about the last 2 clubs. First, I can’t believe she is going to get SCUBA certified. One cherished memory I have of sweet Twinkletoes is on a boat on the gorgeous green waters of the Indian Ocean in Kenya. Twink was 5 years old. She feigned sleep on the boat to avoid an amazing snorkeling experience. I think this is her way of making up for that missed opportunity. And she wins.

Second, I am so proud of her sense of service. Twinkletoes writes, “Today I was at 8 hours of training for coaching a Township Debating League. The student organization “Ubunye” does the Township Debating League and it is really cool. Volunteers coach students in grade 8-12. Each pair of volunteers is assigned a school and coaches about 10 students. I’m excited!” If you have ever argued with Twinkletoes, or ‘debated’ a topic with her – - um, you know she is going to rock this club. She’s going to be a great student coach.

I’m so proud of my daughter. She’s curious, she’s generous, she’s compassionate, she’s responsible, she’s intelligent (underscore), she’s kind. Twinkletoes both knows who she is and is open to her own ‘becoming.’ As a parent, I raise my children to live in the world just as she does – fully, responsibly, and with passion and conviction. I ask my kids to be engaged as they experience.  To embrace as they endeavor. Twinkletoes does it with her own special flare – and it makes me smile from deep within my soul.

Plus, who doesn’t love penguins?

She ended a recent e-mail with “ I was accepted to the Uganda program that will take place next winter break.” (I left out the $ request…bwahahahaha).  I guess that means she’ll be leaving again. She’s getting a Global Health Certificate from UW – Uganda is part of the program.

I’ll miss her one more time. I can’t wait!

The Hat

When the hat comes out, I know something good is on the horizon. I remember when Mom bought this hat for herself –  50th birthday -  Pea Island, NC. 

Pea Island was the day we saw our first roseate spoonbills. Well, maybe we had seen these birds before, before we knew how cool they were. But, probably not. My childhood didn’t have much opportunity for travel from Ohio (I remember 2 long car trips – once to Florida to visit my grandparents and once to Cape Hatteras  – - when I was 6. Mom loved Cape Hatteras so much – it became her dream destination).

Mom worked hard, single parented, didn’t have money, opted for freebie local vacations – we call them staycations now. But a few things changed when we kids were all grown up. She got to a few places. And, on our own, we often got there with her. Cape Hatteras & Pea Island was her dream 50th. We had that dream (feeling that crush of loss and mourning in my chest and thinking, THANK YOU GOD for Pea Island time).

I lost my mom way too soon  - but so much of my life as her daughter comes rushing into my sight when I pull out her hat. And, so much of the path of my own life too.

And so, when I’m traveling I wear “the hat”. My head gets burned in the sun. The wind blows. My hair gets dirty, sandy, limp, a hot mess. I wear Mom’s hat. It protects. As she did. If you’ve seen pictures of me traveling, chances are you’ve seen me wearing this hat. (I’ll spare you the photo journal – and yes, in some of the photos I’m wearing both the hat and the binocular harness – SCORE!).

When I get out this hat, I know good things are about to happen. I love traveling more than anything else; more than driving a new car, more than having a closet full of clothes or shoes, more than gems or jewels (seriously, does anyone like gems and jewels?), more than a daily coffee purchase, more than shopping, more than buying a fancy juicer (but omigod I want a juicer!),  more than eating out, more than paying the biggies college tuitions…get the idea? Life with Mr. Sillypants and Blueberry (I married so young the first time; when y’all who are my age-mates were having your fun, I was breastfeeding non stop for way too many years to count!) is a good life. I am so grateful. And, I am grateful  for the hat, and all it taught me about “today.” (I miss you Mom). Today, the hat is in the luggage. Today, I am humbled by the good and hard work of Mr. Sillypants so that I can take out the hat.

We’ll be off the grid for a week – leaving the home to our ragtag entourage of 20 somethings with a full ‘fridge and reminders to let the dog out.  (OK, not really off the grid. I exaggerate. There will be FB updates, because what would the biggies do if they couldn’t see their baby bro on FB?) .

Ciao!

(crap, as I just finished this I remembered how close I am to 50….wowzers)

On becoming…

If you know me, you know I’m engaged in a life long process of ‘becoming.’  I guess that’s not interesting news – you’re all on the path too. One big piece of my personal work has involved crafting a life that makes sense; deliberate and purposeful integration  of my life occupies a lot of my brain space (and I don’t have that much!).   I am sometimes woefully short of my goals – or find that my goals don’t make sense when bundled together – or discover that I’m simply grabbing something that really isn’t hitched to my heart and soul.

The offers for ‘becoming’ stalk the landscape of my days; different schooling, try yoga, be a vegetarian, sell my belongings and simplify, activate as an activist, grow vegetables, weed my garden, spend more time with my kids, learn how to run a non-profit, read more and read better, write a new high school human rights curriculum, run or bike daily, bird in solitude, travel more, strike inertia with a hot poker…or simply, take the dog for a walk! Gads. I search constantly for feeling content, feeling fulfilled, feeling complete. I’m grateful for my full cup of mothering – for a perfectly imperfect family – for the spaces of deliberation and the means to tackle opportunities OR create them. I have that piece pretty well managed, but it doesn’t complete ME. Family *is* the one thing that feels like my forever sweetness, but I still have this nagging nagging nagging empty space. What the heck is it?

<I feel self absorbed putting this into words, but here it is, ugly with whiney privilege>

I sit here with 2 days a week that are unencumbered and with personal and familial permission to attend to my ‘becoming’. I’m a bit paralyzed. I’m on family leave this year from teaching high school. I had hoped to teach part time, but when that didn’t work out with my school, I asked for family leave to tend to the continuing attachment work that is important for sweet Blue (and oh my gosh we’re having really great days!). Yet,  I’m not sure how to proceed on the 2 days that Blueberry is in morning preschool  followed by afternoon play-time with his little Ethiopian pals. Truly. 2 days. Holy cow I’m woefully unprepared for this. I don’t remember how to pay attention to myself (did I ever? I mean, in a positive way?) without oodles of background noise and demands.  AND I don’t know how to attend to my ‘becoming’ in such open space.  ”Pick me, Pick me!” yell my competing interests (some of them not interesting at all, like the laundry!) I fear I will wallow in indecision and spend it doing the oh so uninteresting laundry and cleaning up of  chaos that is always  sometimes our home. Staying in the comfort of ‘mindless doing’ is my specialty – -

Yeah, so I had better get my head around what’s next….because this really could be exciting. And I need to do it – just do it – without apology or excuse. I just have to give myself over to “it”, to the ‘becoming’.  How to do that…how to do that….and how to figure out what the heck it is!

Tonka’s canned response is in the can.

Right.  So I put out the call to action and asked folks to write letters to their toy manufacturers and/or their local retailers to tell them how they feel about racism  reflected in our toys and our toy aisles all across the country.  My tantrum post had a lot of viewers – and a few of you had really great feedback about what is working and what’s not.

I wrote my letter to Hasbro. Tonka is one of their toy divisions. You know what I received? I received an e-mail FORM LETTER. It was a canned response. Nothing more, nothing less. I canned the canned response. It was pathetic.  I can’t even find it in my inbox – I felt so dismissed that I tossed the loser response. It said something like, ‘We value your opinion blah blah blah.” Morons. Seriously.

I’m going to put my money where my mouth is and spend my money wisely and thoughtfully in my community. I hope you will too.

Tonka Tantrum

Mr. SillyPants and I were party shopping at Costco – picking up some wine and a few other party items for our big bash (more in another post – after I’m done with this pissed off post) when we hit the kid aisle. He wanted to show me some of Blue’s favorite things at Costco (yes, it’s a weekly stop’n'shop; can’t beat the price on organic milk and cream for our coffee). One item was a sorta cool “Diego” crane set.  Blue doesn’t watch much TV, so the Diego piece, featuring ”Diego”,  wouldn’t be a ringer for him. But he likes tools/mechanic/things for pretend play and construction.

Next to the Diego crane set were hundreds of Tonka toy vehicles – hundreds, I tell you. Cool sirens, lifting ladders, rotating helicopter blades, and an accompanying action figure for each themed vehicle.  HOLD ON! You know what? EVERY SINGLE ACTION FIGURE WAS WHITE. And come to think of it, EVERY SINGLE ACTION FIGURE WAS MALE.

WHITE MEN – - I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU!

You know where I’m going with this, right? And you have the good sense not to tell me “you’re making a mountain out of a mole hill”, right? Because, yeah, I’m not overreacting. And I’m not in the mood for, “you’re being PC” or “it’s not like it’s intentional or something like that” or “kids don’t see color so young.” If that’s where you are – you’ve got some learnin’ to do – and I’m gonna ask you to go and do it…NOW.

What the hell is wrong with our toy makers? I greedily looked at these $20 machines, figuring they’d be a HUGE hit with my boy – and we could call it a holiday. But no, instead, the delight in the bargain Costco moment was RUINED by yet another example of the underepresentation of people of color EVERY FUCKIN WHERE. I told you this was a Tonka Tantrum, right? I get to cuss.

Here’s the thing – I’ve already raised 3 kids. I have raised 3 pretty awesome, connected, tuned-in kids. They are kids who grew up with lots of cultural exposure, lots of gender bending opportunities, and with pretty ‘aware’ parents; we kept lots of different types of literature in the house, had all kinds of dolls, avoided a lot of junk culture, had friends in neighborhoods all over the city, blah blah blah etc, etc, etc….I’m a cultural anthropologist for crying out loud. I’m in a constant state of cultural critique.  I kept a pretty keen eye on raising white kids with an awareness of privilege and power and with  an interest in social justice and racial justice. I’ve been a parent for 22 years – I’ve made this sort of work important.  I’ve had ‘tantrums’ before. But not like this. Nope. Not at every single freakin’ turn. It sucks for our family. It sucks even more for our son.

Let me tell you, looking for the image of my beautiful brown hued boy in the world really  brings it. Blue brings it home. BIG time. I’m not intending for him to be my personal ‘object lesson’ – and I know the the dangers of presenting that phenomenon; as in – ‘white mom gets racial injustice when she becomes parent to black son’. And yet,as my friend wrote this morning, “this is the messy business of inequality.”

I don’t have any perfectly constructed words – I’m having a freakin’ TANTRUM.

 Tonka, my kid and ALL OF OUR BLACK KIDS need to see themselves in our toys. I’m pissed. I am mightily pissed that I am NOT seeing his perfect little face looking back at us on our well stocked toy shelves, in our magazines, on our televisions shows, in our literature, in the histories our schools teach…..

I know y’all know what I’m talking about.  It’s worth caring about.  I’m joining the voices of families of color and their allies who have been arguing for so long – ’til they are breathless with effort while still suffocated by elite white privilege. This is worth caring about for all of our children. Every single one of them. 

NOT end of rant…I’m certain. 

What are you finding on the shelves out there?

Boyz to Men

“The Seat Not Taken” by John Edgar Wideman - read it in full below. I picked this up on Heather and Braydon’s blog. They have thoughtfully commented for years about parenting their lovely brown boys. You can read their thoughts about raising their sons here and here. My own thoughts about this are ROARING as I’ve just spent 2 days with Mr. SillyPants at our local YWCA’s Racial Justice Summit. You’ll be hearing more – promise. Start here. We got some talkin’ to do……

THE NEW YORK TIMES

October 6, 2010

The Seat Not Taken

By JOHN EDGAR WIDEMAN

AT least twice a week I ride Amtrak’s high-speed Acela train from my home in New York City to my teaching job in Providence, R.I. The route passes through a region of the country populated by, statistics tell us, a significant segment of its most educated, affluent, sophisticated and enlightened citizens.

Over the last four years, excluding summers, I have conducted a casual sociological experiment in which I am both participant and observer. It’s a survey I began not because I had some specific point to prove by gathering data to support it, but because I couldn’t avoid becoming aware of an obvious, disquieting truth.

Almost invariably, after I have hustled aboard early and occupied one half of a vacant double seat in the usually crowded quiet car, the empty place next to me will remain empty for the entire trip.

I’m a man of color, one of the few on the train and often the only one in the quiet car, and I’ve concluded that color explains a lot about my experience. Unless the car is nearly full, color will determine, even if it doesn’t exactly clarify, why 9 times out of 10 people will shun a free seat if it means sitting beside me.

Giving them and myself the benefit of the doubt, I can rule out excessive body odor or bad breath; a hateful, intimidating scowl; hip-hop clothing; or a hideous deformity as possible objections to my person. Considering also the cost of an Acela ticket, the fact that I display no visible indications of religious preference and, finally, the numerous external signs of middle-class membership I share with the majority of the passengers, color appears to be a sufficient reason for the behavior I have recorded.

Of course, I’m not registering a complaint about the privilege, conferred upon me by color, to enjoy the luxury of an extra seat to myself. I relish the opportunity to spread out, savor the privacy and quiet and work or gaze at the scenic New England woods and coast. It’s a particularly appealing perk if I compare the train to air travel or any other mode of transportation, besides walking or bicycling, for negotiating the mercilessly congested Northeast Corridor. Still, in the year 2010, with an African-descended, brown president in the White House and a nation confidently asserting its passage into a postracial era, it strikes me as odd to ride beside a vacant seat, just about every time I embark on a three-hour journey each way, from home to work and back.

I admit I look forward to the moment when other passengers, searching for a good seat, or any seat at all on the busiest days, stop anxiously prowling the quiet-car aisle, the moment when they have all settled elsewhere, including the ones who willfully blinded themselves to the open seat beside me or were unconvinced of its availability when they passed by. I savor that precise moment when the train sighs and begins to glide away from Penn or Providence Station, and I’m able to say to myself, with relative assurance, that the vacant place beside me is free, free at last, or at least free until the next station. I can relax, prop open my briefcase or rest papers, snacks or my arm in the unoccupied seat.

But the very pleasing moment of anticipation casts a shadow, because I can’t accept the bounty of an extra seat without remembering why it’s empty, without wondering if its emptiness isn’t something quite sad. And quite dangerous, also, if left unexamined. Posters in the train, the station, the subway warn: if you see something, say something.

John Edgar Wideman is a professor of Africana studies and literary arts at Brown and the author, most recently, of “Briefs.”

Black Power’s Gonna Get You Sucka: Right-Wing Paranoia and the Rhetoric of Modern Racism

Black Power's Gonna Get You Sucka: Right-Wing Paranoia and the Rhetoric of Modern Racism

This is for me and mine – because I’m going to need to go back to this time and time again. I can find it easily here – my
blog is like a bookmark

(I don’t care much about the political rhetoric, but I do care about the data that Wise provides in example after example)

Reading Racism Right to Left: Reflections on a Powerful Word and Its Applications

Reading Racism Right to Left: Reflections on a Powerful Word and Its Applications

Read this.
Worth it.
Long.
Critical thinking is necessary.
Open mind is a must.
Own it.
Change yourself.
Commit.

Ice cream sundaes just arrived in our home (Thank you Mr. Silly Pants!)- nothing like a little sweet creaminess to add to the reading experience.