Author: ORJ

I'm a wife (6 years), a professor of law (3 years), and a mother (20 months). Although I enjoy writing and researching in the academic arena, I've always been less confident when writing creatively. The same is true in my life more generally: I've always been great at school, and I've always been timid when it comes to singing and dancing, two things I love to do. So, here's to blogging to help develop my confidence in my creative abilities!

Mind and Belly in Motion

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Although class is conducted in front of a mirrored wall, my eyes are usually steadily trained on my instructor, not only because I am trying desperately to mimic her dancing, but also because I don’t want to see how awkward I look trying the new movements.  After initial timidity, I embraced the mid-section baring “Is Your Belly in Motion?” T-shirt I had purchased for class.  But it’s still hard to watch.

Sometimes while dancing, my mind wanders.  I think back to the first time I ever wore a bodysuit, those ridiculous snap-at-the-crotch shirts that my friends and I started wearing in the eighth grade.  My first bodysuit was purple, and although I had been excited to wear it to school that morning, I lost my confidence when I walked through the doors of my middle school.  I made a bee-line for my best friend’s locker and said, “do I look like a slut in this?,” suddenly uncomfortable with the small breasts that the top was made to show off.  “No!,” she answered; “you look really nice.”  I was relieved, although it was several class periods until I was comfortable enough to take my jacket off.  For many girls at that age, there is both a sense of shame and pride at burgeoning sexuality; you’re proud that you (finally) have breasts, but you’re also ashamed at the attention they attract.

In contrast, I’ve been more comfortable with my body in athletic settings.  When my high school volleyball team moved to the short, tight, spandex shorts that had become popular for the sport, I didn’t bat an eyelash, even as my teammates bemoaned the way the pants molded to their hips, thighs, and butts.  I was proud of my body on the court.  I was not a natural athlete, but I had long legs and arms that made me a valuable team member despite my difficulty learning new skills.  When I did master a skill, I felt powerful.  There was no shame because the attention I attracted was on account of something I had learned to do, unlike my sexuality, the development of and attraction to which seemed largely out of my control.

This love-hate relationship with my body has continued into adulthood.  I’m not embarrassed to wear tiny tanks and shorts when playing sports; the activity is less about what my body looks like, and more about what my body can do.  In other parts of my life, I’m more conservative.  It’s unlikely that I’ll play up my breasts with a low-cleavage shirt, or highlight my behind with a tight dress.  My preferred skirt length is right at the knee.  A large part of this is just maturity: at my age, I know that some things are best left to the imagination; that classy and sexy are not mutually exclusive.  Admittedly, though, a part of it is still a lingering discomfort with this aspect of my sexuality.  When my shirt is low-cut, or my skirt a little tight, I become that 13-year old girl again, wondering if I “look like a slut,” proud of my figure, but unable to shake the feeling that my sexuality is on display for others and out of my control.  I realize that these conflicting feelings are the result of growing up in a society where women are taught that their bodies normatively belong to men, and the shaming that results when women either fail to perform as expected or choose to control and enjoy their sexuality for themselves.

Bellydancing, however, has been a different experience.  Although it is undeniable that the movements celebrate female sexuality, the performance is not necessarily for men.  Rather, bellydancing is a folk dance passed down from mothers to daughters, learned in the company of women, and often performed for other women.  Bellydancing teaches that a woman’s strength is in her stomach and hips, not because these are the areas that are most attractive to men, but because these are the areas that house miraculous child-bearing abilities possessed only by women.  In learning the dance, I am encouraged to embrace my body in a place other than an athletic court.  Yes, I am baring my stomach, moving my hips, and rolling my body in ways that connote sexuality.  And, people passing by may enjoy it, as the young men who often stop to peer into the classroom on their way to the bathroom do.  But I dance for me, and for the women around me.  I control this display of sexuality, and for the first time, I like it.

The words of my instructor snap me out of my reverie, and my focus returns to the studio.  I steal furtive glances at myself in the mirror, and actually think, “not too bad.”  For a second I see that 13-year  old girl in the mirror as she confidently smiles at me, totally at ease with her body.  Right before my eyes dart back to my instructor, I smile back.

Too Cool for Home School?

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In researching the home-schooling trend, a movement that seems to be gathering steam, I came across the book “Morning by Morning: How We Home-Schooled Our African-American Sons to the Ivy League.”  The author begins the book by stating, somewhat apologetically, that her family had not chosen homeschooling because they concluded it was the best option after researching their sons’ educational opportunities.  Rather, they decided on homeschooling in reaction to what “some white people had done to them.”

I can certainly empathize. I have written before about what I think white people might do to my daughter in the school system.   As eloquently explained by my co-blogger, the “colorblind” mantra–all the rage since the election of our first black president–dangerously allows people to ignore the ways in which our society’s institutions and systems perpetuate racial inequality.  In the classroom, it dangerously allows teachers and students to ignore the ways in which race influences their decisions in a learning environment.  And so, I’m anxious about teachers who will underestimate my daughter’s abilities, subject her to racially offensive lessons, or discipline her for “acts of insubordination” that would merely land her white classmates a stern look.  I worry about student social patterns, broken down along lines of race, that may render her isolated by her peers, left out of playgroups, and uninvited to birthday parties.  I’ll be on guard for administrators who, under the guise of “colorblindness” and “objectivity,” will seek to erase people of color from the curriculum all together.

Home-schooled, my daughter could avoid all that.  Our home is full of positive images of people of color; our books include not only black children, but children of all races.  We would never underestimate her ability; in fact, we’d likely expect more of her than public school teachers would.  We could integrate current events into our lessons, placing them in the proper social context, teaching her about race and class in ways that will make her an informed and compassionate citizen of the world.  We could give her a culturally reaffirming and rigorous education.

Alas, it’s only a pipe dream.  My husband and I both work full-time, and so it is unlikely that we will ultimately decide to home school.  We’ll have to settle for using our own resources, as educators and people of color attuned to race and class dynamics around us, to be doggedly vigilant regarding what goes on in our daughter’s classrooms.  All the same, “Morning To Morning” has got me thinking about how to give children of color better educational experiences; could homeschooling be the answer for more of us?

Politics of Black Hair

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When rocking my daughter to sleep, I often spend time delighting in the patterns her hair makes on her head.  Like many people, her curl pattern is not uniform; it’s looser in the front and top, creating a soft crown of hair that I love to touch.  The hair in the back is more tightly wound, creating beautiful coils that dot her scalp.  The hair on the sides gently fan out in little waves, framing her tiny ears.

When I take her out in public, however, I sometimes forget to see the beauty of her hair, scanning as I am for the disapproval of others.  I find myself apologizing for the lint that her curls tend to trap.  If she’s just come from her father’s care, I interrogate him: “did you brush it before you left?!?”  In response to suggestions that her hair is short, I tensely explain, “it is growing; it’s just curly, so you can’t tell.”  The well-intentioned offers by relatives to “cornrow it so that it can grow” do not help.  In response, my back stiffens, and I plaster a smile on my face: “oh no; she’ll never sit for that.”

And, she won’t sit for it.  My 15-month old doesn’t like to be restrained, and since learning to walk and run, she doesn’t have to be.  But the truth is, I don’t want her hair braided or corn-rowed, because I like her poofy little afro.  Her short hair isn’t bothering her none, and it certainly doesn’t bother me.  My daughter is beautiful every day, whether her hair is long or short, lint-speckled or fresh from a washing, curled tight or billowed around her head like a halo.

I wish I could tell people this.  Tell white folks who have no experience with black hair that her coils are near perfect in their uniformity; that although more complicated to handle, black hair is the most versatile in the world.  Tell black folks who should know better that black hair needs moisture, not grease; gentle detangling, not too-tight cornrows; that every kink, standing for itself, does not have to be brushed out.  I’d like to tell everyone to abandon their obsession with long locks for my girl; stop teaching her at such an early age that she is less beautiful with tightly coiled hair.

But mostly I just smile and nod; it seems like such an uphill battle, and at this point in my life, I’m used to it.  After having worn locs for 2 years, a cousin asked me before I got married, “you’re gonna perm your hair for the wedding, right???”  When I go to the salon to get my hair re-tightened, the other stylists insist on standing near my chair, staring at my hair, and asking inane questions like “how does it stay???” Just yesterday, I thumbed through the pages of Essence magazine, and found not one article on natural hair care.  There was no end, however, of articles offering maintenance tips for chemically straightened hair.

I don’t begrudge other women the opportunity to make hair choices that are right for them.  But it saddens me that my family and friends don’t always appreciate the beauty of textured hair.  I don’t understand how you can be a licensed hair stylist but have absolutely no understanding of the basic mechanics of dreadlocs.  It’d be nice if acknowledgment and celebration of natural hair on black women went beyond a superficial pop-culture fixation on larger-than-life afros and perfectly groomed locs.

Until that day comes, I continue trying to shield my daughter from an onslaught of messages that undervalue her beauty, while navigating an aesthetic landmine of my own.  I’ve been talking about cutting off my locs and rockin’ a short afro for 2 years now, but I can’t work up the courage to do it; it seems I, too, am invested in a white beauty standard that prizes long hair.  Taking scissors to it all, however, just might be what liberates me from all this hair oppression, finally freeing me to delight in my child’s hair–and my own–whether we’re inside the house or out.

Fathers and Daughters

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I still remember his deliberate movements; his even-paced, leisurely walks around the block in the late afternoon sun; the slow grin into which he would break when I read to him in French.  At 66, my grandfather was not the authoritarian he had been when raising my mother.  With my sister and me, he was all warmth, his smiles and displays of affection a constant reminder of his approval of us.  He visited during the summers, and the room in which he stayed was named “chambre de Pere-Pere” even after he returned to Haiti at the end of his visits.  After he died, my mother summarily announced that the room was no longer “Grandfather’s room;” instead, it was just the TV room.  She wore only black and white for one year to mourn his passing, despite the fact that their relationship had not been everything she wanted it to be.  One of the first colored items of clothing she wore when her grieving period was complete was an embroidered short-sleeved linen shirt that had belonged to him.  Even now, when I see men wearing Guayaberas in the streets of Miami, I am reminded of my Pere-Pere.

For reasons at once complex and simple, my daughter does not know her maternal grandfather; they have never met.  My relationship with my father is strained; and the offenses that have passed between us are made heavier by our cultural differences.  A West African man, he is comfortable neither acknowledging the pain he has caused his children, nor spontaneously reaching out to connect with his daughters; because he is an elder, we must contact him first, and keep contacting him even if he chooses not to respond.  An American girl, I’m well versed in pop psychology; I know that toxic people, even parents, do not deserve space in my life.  As a result, I’ve made peace with the distance between us, no longer needing his validation.  We talk on occasion, but the conversations are often muddled by his insistence on settling the score, noting what I did or did not do that requires his reprimand.

It’s okay, necessary even, to give myself what my father has not been able to give me.  But what of that which my father could give to my daughter?  I would love to marvel at his ability to be tender and understanding with her in a way he cannot be with his first-born, much like my mother probably marveled at my grandfather’s soft touch with my sister and me.  There must be something liberating about being a grandparent; freed from the burden of active parenting, grandparents are only expected to offer love, unfettered by the messy complications of disappointment in failure, or anxious hope for success.  And just as easily, grandchildren offer only love in return, aware that a grandparent’s love is more truly unconditional than that of their parents.

I think about the possibilities of that unconditional love between grandfathers and granddaughters when I do call him; I am always hopeful that our conversation will finally be less about who wronged whom, and more about catching up.  My daughter babbles cheerfully in the background, and instantly his voice softens.  “Oh, I can hear her,” he says wistfully.  “She must be so big, now.”

Reflect, Readjust, and Resolve

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For people beholden to the academic calendar, the end of the year is not Dec. 31st, but May 31st.  And, just like the end of the calendar year, the end of the academic year is an opportunity to reflect on the successes and failures of the previous year, readjust priorities, and resolve to do better going forward.

In terms of teaching, I had two goals for this past year: teach students some law, and establish meaningful connections with then in the process.  Although some of the exams I’ve graded are making me doubt whether I achieved the former (Hel-lo, people! We discussed question #1 in the review session!), the insistence of several students on hugging me as I hooded them at graduation, despite the commands of graduation facilitators (“NO HUGGING ON STAGE!”), assured me of the latter.

My goal for my daughter was simple: raise a happy and healthy child.  Well, by all accounts, she’s a bubbly, healthy, little girl.  Turns out there were some teeth up in her gums after all, she has learned to sleep through the night, and her tantrums in protest to being placed on the changing table illustrate a strong will (and a healthy does of spunk!).  She took her first steps earlier this week, and continues to delight her father and me with her ongoing mastery of the world around her.

But not all aspects of my life have fared so well.  I love exercise, and have always found a way to move my body, be it organized sports or African-dance.  I have not exercised regularly, however, since my daughter’s birth.  I love my career, and although I have excelled at the teaching part, I have not written a new piece of scholarship in almost one year.  I love my husband, but with the demands of our newly expanded family, and my insistence on staying home with my daughter during the day (and, thus, working at night), he and I have not had the quality time that is important for a thriving marriage.

And so, in the 3-month grace period that the academic year affords before the start of the New Year in the fall, I will be making some changes.  This summer, I’ll be joining the campus Wellness Center, where I will start an exercise program that includes tennis, kickboxing, Tai Chi, and maybe even belly dancing (killing two birds with one stone with that last one!).  We are currently on an interview blitz to find a babysitter who can give my husband and me an opportunity for a semi-regular date night!  And, finally, my husband will stay home this summer with the baby, so that I can go into the office regularly and begin work on a scholarly piece that, to date, has existed only in my head.

I’m excited about the summer and the changes it will bring, although even positive changes sometimes require hard decisions.  To make time for scholarly writing, exercising and dating, other things that I love will have to be put on hold for a while.  Accordingly, I will be taking a break from Cocoamamas for the summer.

I hope to return in the fall refreshed, ready to start a new year, and with a newly acquired ability to move my midsection!  In the meantime, enjoy your summer; I pray that it will give you an opportunity to reflect, readjust, and resolve to do better going forward.

Power and Persuasion in the Classroom

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A student, after sitting through one of my lectures, and then talking with me over an orientation dinner during which faculty were encouraged to engage students, asked me at the end of the evening if I was going to hit the bar scene later that night.

*sigh*

Exchanges like that are what lead to exchanges like this: “I am Professor J; let’s get started.”  No “hello;” no “how are you?;” no “this is administrative law, in room F109; make sure you’re in the right class.”  Rather, I jump right into substance on the first day, calling on students randomly, fully expecting them to have completed, and critically assessed, the first assigned reading.  When going over my syllabus and classroom policies at the end of that first class, I emphasize that I don’t excuse absences; that I don’t tolerate lateness; that the word “pass” has no meaning in my classroom.  I always wear a suit to teach.  I call on students by their last names, using “Mr.” and “Mrs.”  I am known to write challenging exams, and to be an unforgiving grader.  I threaten to ban laptops if students violate my rules regarding internet use during class.

The current teaching semester, however, is almost over, and on Thursday, I started class by expressing my love for the TV show Glee.  Always tickled to get a glimpse into the personal lives of their professors, my students immediately broke out into a round of giggling and twittering.  When one student asked me what all the excitement was about Glee, I gave her a response that ended with me dancing while I sang one bar of a song covered by the show last season.  More giggling ensued.

The contrast between the way I begin the semester, and the way in which I end it, is a reflection of the balancing act that teaching requires of me.  As I was preparing to teach my very first class two years ago, a colleague warned me that I had a profile “trifecta” that I would have to manage in the classroom: young, black, and female.  Graduate students are used to seeing authority in the classroom embodied as an older white male.  They associate power with that profile, and defer to it accordingly. When my profile shows up instead, deference is thrown out the window.  An isolated mistake is interpreted as a sign of incompetence.  Students feel emboldened to challenge my knowledge.  A bad hair day will be mentioned in my teaching evaluations.  To manage all of this, my classroom practices and policies are meant to convey power; they are meant to convey the seriousness of our classroom endeavor; they are meant to convey that I am to be taken seriously.

But I am not always a serious person.  And I don’t believe the classroom should be a site of dominance.  Learning, rather, is a collaborative experience, and part of that collaboration means that I must bring a little bit of myself into the classroom.  As in other parts of my life, in the classroom I am quick to smile, and laugh often.  I’m a bit of a ham, but teaching is, after all, a performance art.  My lectures are peppered with personal anecdotes and jokes.  My students know that I am married; that I have a young child.  Most importantly, my students know that I see the world from the perspective of a young black female, which means I am sensitive to the ways in which the law affects marginalized groups in society.  Explicitly acknowledging my racial and gender identity in the classroom sometimes makes me uneasy.  When my teaching evaluations are released to me at the end of every semester, I have my husband take a look at them first, so he can screen out any craziness.

Despite positive evaluations so far, I still fear that students will punish me for explicitly acknowledging that I am different from most of their other professors.  Black females are often punished on teaching evaluations for being—well, black and female.  Explicitly acknowledging that I have a perspective that differs from that of their other law professors on account of who I am in the world only invites them to penalize me for that difference.  And because they often have no framework for black women in positions of power, my willingness to be human with them will sometimes encourage them to perceive me as a peer.  I still remember the surprise of having that student ask me if he would see me out drinking later that night.  My immediate response was to laugh at his boldness, but my intuition told me that if I were white and male, no amount of conversation over a formal dinner would have permitted him to ask me such a question.

At the end of the day, however, I have to be me; and I have to remain faithful that in showing my students who I am, I am teaching them an important lesson.  When I’m feeling uneasy about being myself in front of my students, I am encouraged by a former colleague who wore her hijab to teach.  I once ran into her over the weekend but barely recognized her because she wasn’t wearing her scarf.  When I expressed surprise, she explained to me that although she did not always wear her scarf outside of the classroom, she always wore it inside the classroom.  “They need to persuaded,” she said, “that their law professor can be both an accomplished instructor and an observant Muslim woman; they need to see that I’m not oppressed; that I’m educated; that my religious beliefs don’t conflict with my participation in a democratic society.”  I like to think that I am persuading my students that their law professor can be both an accomplished instructor and a black female; that power does not have to look white and male; and that my willingness to engage them on a personal level is not mutually exclusive with my ability to engage them on an academic one.

Color Her Gone

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The instructor of my “Home With Baby” class likes to tell us that breastfed babies are “color me gone;” having been properly nurtured at the breast, they eagerly run off to explore their environment, checking in with mom only momentarily before heading off again.  This week my daughter started crawling, and she is definitely gone!  Previously having been content to be held and carried around the house, she is now perpetually squirming in my arms, wanting to be placed on the floor.  Once down, she quickly moves away from me, off to examine some new corner of the room.  While I don’t believe that breastfeeding is a requirement for raising a “properly nurtured child” (whatever that means!), I do believe that one of our first tasks as parents is to create with our children bonds so stable and secure that they develop the courage to head out into the world without us.  Having cultivated that courage through nurturing, our second task is to let them go.

At only 9 months into motherhood, I know it’s too early to start writing overwrought pieces about letting my baby go.  But the truth is that I’ve been letting her go in small ways almost every single day, although figuring out when to do so isn’t always easy.  My daughter’s first solid food was Cheerios cereal.  In the beginning, she couldn’t eat them without assistance; they would stick to the palm of her hands, or she would drop them on the way to her mouth.  She would become frustrated, sometimes crying and pulling her hair.  It broke my heart to see her so discouraged; my stomach literally turned in knots. And so, when she started to cry, I quickly picked up a Cheerio and placed it in her mouth.  But eventually, I had to stop helping, leaving her to independently develop the killer pincer grasp she uses to accurately pick up the cereal today.  I had to let her be—had to let her go—so that she could discover her capabilities by herself.  A few weeks ago, she started trying to pull herself up into a standing position.  Her frustration again presented itself and in response, I obligingly placed her in the upright position she desired.  Again, however, I had to let her go.  Last Thursday, I walked into her room after she had woken from a nap to find her standing at the railing of her crib.  The smile on her face as she watched me enter the room made it clear that my delight at her mastery of this skill was matched only by her delight in having realized that she was capable of the mastery on her own.

This process—this letting go in small, but regular, intervals—can only end in heartbreak for me.  My husband and I already joke about the tears we will both shed when we head home after dropping her off at college for the first time.   We dramatically envision watching her image grow smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror as we drive further and further away.  We imagine that it might take us days, even weeks (but not too many weeks), to fully embrace the return of the freedoms we gave up 9 months ago: going to the movies or eating at a restaurant on a whim; watching TV late into the evenings, with no threat of a 3AM feeding; sleeping as late as we’d like on Sunday mornings.  And yet, we throw ourselves completely into the process anyway.  We hold her, and kiss her, and rock her to sleep at night.  I go to her if she does wake at 3, and sing and nurse her back to sleep, waiting until she is completely limp to place her in her crib.  I don’t force her to engage with people with whom she doesn’t want to engage.  I expose her to new places, new noises, new people, all while holding her, waiting for her to ask to be put down.  Her father’s is the first face she sees in the morning; mine is the last face she sees at night.  To the best of our abilities, we try to show her that she is secure with us; that despite the turbulence she may encounter in the world, there will always be peace in our arms.  She is now taking off without us, barely casting us a glance over her shoulder as she crawls across the room after an object that has caught her interest.

Sometimes when I’m playing with her on the floor or in the rocker, my daughter uses my body to pull herself up.  Once standing, she clumsily throws her arms around my neck.  Usually, she is after an object behind me, or eager to touch the cushion on the back of the chair.  Every once in a while, however, she lays her head in the crook of my neck, and becomes still.  I quickly wrap my arms around her, for I know the moment will not last long.  I breathe in her sweet baby smell, and try to hear the message I believe she is conveying to me: “don’t worry mommy; I’m always leaving you, but I am never really gone.”  And just like that, a second later, she is off again, exiting my arms as quickly as she entered them.

Whose Children Are These?

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I am conflicted when I read about the orphans taken out of Haiti in the days after the devastating earthquake there.  By now, we’ve all heard the story of the missionary group that improperly removed children from Haiti, despite repeated warnings to their leadership that they lacked the authority to do so.  Lest we conclude this was just the mistake of misguided, but well-intentioned ordinary people who didn’t know any better, the U.S. government has also been responsible for improperly conceived plans to take children out of Haiti.  Governor Rendell of Pennsylvania, with the support of the Obama administration, successfully organized an airlift of 54 Haitian children who were supposedly in the process of being adopted, despite being aware that not all of the children were orphans, or even in the adoption process.  It is not, however, only rescue missions and airlifts that give me pause.  In the days after the earthquake, a feel-good story surfaced of a widowed white woman who had all but completed the adoption process for twin babies in Haiti, a boy and girl.  With the help of the U.S. embassy and a non-profit group, she was able to hasten her adoptive childrens’ arrival in the U.S. after the quake.  When reading the article, I scanned the page for a picture, wanting, in particular, to see the little black girl.

Children need and deserve supportive homes where they will be loved and taken care of.  My child is in a home with two parents who adore her and are committed to her well-being, no matter the sacrifices that her well-being will require.  I am in no position to deny that to any other child, regardless of whether that child is of the same race as his or her adoptive parents.

There is something unsettling, however, about the speed with which these children were improperly (and, likely, illegally) taken out of their home country.  I see a troubling arrogance behind the intentions of the missionaries and the U.S. government: the assumption that anywhere but Haiti would be better for those children; the assumption that the life Americans could provide for the children would surely be better than any life Haitians could provide for them in Haiti.  The assumption, even, that whites looking to adopt these children would necessarily be capable of raising a black child in the United States.

Staring at the picture of the little girl, I first wondered, “has this mother mastered the most basic of parenting tasks for those fortunate enough to raise a black child—that of grooming a black child’s hair, in all it’s curly and kinky glory?”  More substantively, I questioned whether she had grappled with the harder questions, like how race will impact the twins’ educational experience.  Has she considered the assumptions that teachers may make about their intelligence and capability on account of their dark skin?  Is she, and the other white adoptive parents implicated in these news articles, prepared to confront the lack of celebrated role models for their adopted children; to counter societal preferences for blue eyes and straight blond hair that their brown children do not have?  In the hopes of raising a “colorblind” child, will these parents errantly avoid discussions about race and racism in their home, thus leaving these babies to draw conclusions based on their observations of a world that inevitably places black and brown people at the bottom of a social hierarchy?  Have these parents confronted their own beliefs about race, both conscious and unconscious?  Have they considered how their own understanding of race, or a lack thereof, will affect their ability to parent these children?  Considered, even, whether their own psyches harbor the very same assumptions that allow missionary groups and government officials to disregard the right of a sovereign black nation to control when and how their children might be removed from their country?  Do any of these white parents believe themselves to be superior parents for these black children because they are, well, white?  Note, I haven’t even begun to address what the adoptions mean for the loss of Haitian identity among these children.

My suggestion is not that being white should necessarily preclude white people from adopting black children.  No race has the monopoly on properly raising children, and black children do not “belong” to only black parents.  Indeed, to open your heart and home to a child you did not conceive is a beautiful thing.  But like any adoptive parent, you shouldn’t be deemed fit to adopt a child if you’re not prepared to address the unique circumstances of that child.  Growing up as a person of color can be challenging enough; to grow up without parents who can understand—or worse, refuse to acknowledge—that experience is doubly difficult.  It would be a mistake for a white parent to assume that because race is not a factor in their own life, that it won’t be a factor in the lives of their black adoptive children.

Even I, a black mother, struggle with properly contextualizing race in my daughter’s life.  And if I can struggle, then I’m left wondering about how these white adoptive parents are faring.  Who, I wonder, are the best parents for these black children?  To what type of family can a black child properly be said to belong?

Billboards and Conspiracy Theories

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The more news coverage the “Too Many Aborted” billboards in Atlanta get, the angrier I become.

It never ceases to amaze me how much time and money are spent trying to prevent women from obtaining abortions, rather than trying to support women when they have their babies.  If women could be sure that in this, the wealthiest country in the world, they would be guaranteed adequate housing, nutrition, medical care and education for their children, they might make different decisions when faced with an unplanned pregnancy.  The scant attention and resources paid by anti-abortion groups to these issues leaves me with no choice but to conclude that it is not about “respecting life;” it’s about controlling me.

But now the movement is targeting black women, and them’s fightin’ words.

When the Supreme Court hands down decisions that burden a woman’s right to make choices regarding her reproduction, that burden is disproportionately borne by poor black and brown women.  Wealthy white women have access to private health care should they need to terminate a pregnancy.  That luxury is not always afforded to the poor and working class, making those decisions anything but race-neutral.  When powerful whites try to control my reproduction, it starts feeling like a plantation up in here.

And now, anti-abortion whites are using racism against ME to further THEIR cause.  The billboards in Atlanta, as well as media projects like Maafa 21, suggest that abortion is all part of a grand conspiracy to eliminate black folks.  Legitimately distrustful of the government and medical establishment (due, in no small part, to racist and unethical governmental research projects like the Tuskegee Syphilis experiment), the black community is becoming increasingly receptive to the suggestion, despite the fact that the conspiracy theory–like most conspiracy theories–is based only on half-truths.

So, let me get this straight: white anti-abortion advocates get to capitalize on America’s very own racist past (and present) in their pursuit to control my black body?  The irony would make me laugh…if I wasn’t so pissed off.

It’s Dark In Here

ORJ8 Comments

I thought I had reached the light at the end of the tunnel.  After eight long months of waking every three hours (and sometimes every one hour or every 45 minutes), my daughter began sleeping ten to eleven hours.  Straight.  Every night.  As the barrage of sleepless nights came to an end, I emerged from my bunker and stopped moving through the world like a zombie.   My husband and I were reacquainted over dinners; I started exercising again; I even watched a little TV!  Most importantly, I started sleeping too.  But things fall apart: after three weeks of nighttime peace, my daughter stopped sleeping so soundly.  Eleven hours became eight, and getting her to sleep became the new challenge.

Having been to the promised land, this backslide is hard to accept.  Rationally, I know this problem is inconsequential, but rational thought does nothing to temper the havoc that sustained sleep deprivation can wreak in your life.  Sleep deprivation, however, is only part of the problem.  The larger problem is my reaction to the deprivation.  For eight months, I was somebody I didn’t like: sarcastic, short-tempered, exceedingly inflexible, quick to assign blame.  I would write that I was somebody I didn’t recognize, but the truth is that I did recognize the person I had become; sleep deprivation just amplified those negative aspects of my personality that I manage to keep under wraps with nine hours of sleep a night.  The advent of a sleeping baby allowed me to neatly wrap those character flaws back up, much to the relief of my husband.  As I now watch her newly established sleeping patterns slip away, I also watch my personality flaws reemerge.  Tensions are again rising in my home, in my relationships, and in my heart.

Parents can pass on character failures to their children, and I worry about what I am teaching her about handling stress.  If I don’t want her to lash out when chaos fills her life, I have to learn to keep my head when chaos comes to mine.  But this lesson is hard, and rational thought again fails me.  I know what it is I need to learn, but I’m not sure how to learn it.  How, in the middle of my frustration and exhaustion, can I find a light in the tunnel, and not merely at the end?