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!

Good Fortune and Good Luck

ORJ39 Comments

Although “Mazel Tov,” a Hebrew phrase, translates literally as “good luck,” the expression really means “good fortune has occurred,” hence its use as a term of congratulations.  I had a baby girl 8 months ago: Mazel Tov to me! I have been lucky enough to be able to stay home with her since her birth, and with the exception of the nine hours a week that I teach and hold office hours, I will continue to be her primary caregiver until she is at least 15 months old.  At that point, I will need to take more hours out of the day for work.

I had it all planned out: at 15 months we would enroll her in the on-campus day care program, a mere 5-minute walk from my office. We live near campus, so there would be no commute; only a leisurely stroll across well-manicured lawns to her classroom.  I could stop by to have lunch with her, or stop by, just because.  She would never be too far away, and she would never have to stay longer than necessary.  At the end of the day, we’d walk back across lush campus greens together.

Well, you know what they say about the best-laid plans.  The on-campus daycare has elected not to renew its NAEYC certification (the gold-standard for child care facilities), it is losing its manager of over 20 years due to retirement, and faculty are starting to pull their children out, citing a decrease in the quality of care, insufficient “free-play” for the children, and an environment that is not as warm or nurturing as other day care facilities in the area.  I am no longer mapping out our walk to school together in the mornings.  Instead, I am now considering one of the best Jewish day-school infant programs in the city.  Although the program is described as secular, a non-Jewish colleague who enrolled her child fondly recalled that her child grew up singing “cute Jewish nursery rhymes.”  I now envision my daughter doing the same, using Hebrew words to tell me about body parts and manners.

I’m worried.

Jewish religion and culture are as beautiful and relevant as any other religion and culture, and have impacted my own life in both significant and superficial ways.  The problem is what consideration of a Jewish day care program has forced me to confront: I do not have access to a “Haitian” day care program; there is no “black” day care facility.  For much, if not all, of my daughter’s education, she will engage with a curriculum that will, at best, ignore her experience as a person of color, and at worst, focus only on the oppression of people of color in this country. As if to signal things to come, there is not one picture of a black child in the day care program’s brochures.

Raising a black child is not for the faint of heart.  A mere 8 months into her life, my husband and I regularly question the choices we make regarding the formation of her identity: is she playing enough with other children of color?; should we only hire black babysitters?; Spanish is nice, but maybe we should expose her to French or Kreyol…; does she see enough women of color?…does she meet enough women who look like me?  We are committed to creating an environment that will affirm the color of her skin, the shape of her lips, the texture of her hair: the artwork on our walls intentionally feature black women; her bookshelf is filled with stories about children of color; we will not be bringing the March 2010 issue of Vanity Fair into our home.

And now, we must start thinking about the educational environment that is best for her.  What does “best” mean?  Surely, it must mean a day care that meets the highest child-care standards.  It must also mean a day care that gives her a couple of minutes to stack the darned blocks whichever way she wants.  But does it also mean a day care that will celebrate the beauty and worth of her cultural background?  I am under no illusion that the on-campus facility would have taught her songs about Haitian independence, the words to “Frere Jacques,” or the accomplishments of black women in the Americas.  It is one thing, however, to be one of several black children in a mainstream day care program; it is quite another to be the only black child in a Jewish day care program.  Can I enroll her in this program without somehow undermining the sense of pride we are trying to instill in her regarding her own racial and ethnic identity?

We have officially entered the morass of steering a child of color through the American education system.  Good fortune has certainly occurred, but moving forward, I now need wishes of good luck.

Haiti, My Darling

ORJ5 Comments

Ayiti Cheri…

Fok mwen te kite ou, pou m’te kapab konprann vale ou…

Fok mwen te lese ou…

Pou m’santi vreman tousa ou te ye pou mwen

Haiti, Darling

I had to leave you to understand your value

I had to leave you

To really understand everything you were to me

I burst into tears when my mother announced over the phone that MereMere (my grandmother) and Uncle—the last of my immediate family who were not yet accounted for—were safe.  The relief I felt, however, only slightly tempered the grief I was feeling over the disastrous earthquake, and its nightmarish aftermath, in Haiti.  No matter what news channel I turned to, the message was the same: the damage is unimaginable; the loss of life incomprehensible; the survivors needed food, water, shelter, and medical care that would be slow in arriving.  Haitians were suffering.  I sat on the couch, immobilized by, as one friend put it, “the limits of my own humanity.”  Was this it?  Were praying and sending money the only things I could do for Haiti, a country that has given me so much?

I am a first-generation American.  Although my mother married a West African, family circumstances and relationships made us a primarily Haitian household.  As a result, I identify closely with Haitian music, food, art, and language.  Growing up, I spoke Haitian Kreyol and French, requested “pwa an sos” with every meal (sometimes to the embarrassment of my mother when we visited guests), and wore ribbons in my hair until well past the 6th grade—as all Haitian girls are unfortunately forced to do by their mothers (so un-cool!).  Like many first generation children, the rules and expectations in my home were sometimes a little different than that of other American households: greeting all elders with a kiss when you entered a room was expected; permission to attend sleepovers was not (“why would I send you to sleep in somebody else’s house, when you have your own bed right here?”); fast-food and the movies were exotic experiences, if they were experienced at all.

Being of Haitian descent shaped my identity in ways that protected me from the onslaught of negative messages to which black girls are often subject.  Haiti was the first black country in the world to gain their independence (a distinction for which white countries have made them pay dearly, but that’s for another post…).  That fact allowed me to lay claim to a heritage that was not defined solely by slavery, unlike many of my black peers who often resorted to the old trope of “we were once Kings and Queens” in an effort to do the same.  Although Haiti is politically unstable, I could pledge some measure of allegiance to the Haitian flag without having to reconcile my loyalty with evidence that the country still didn’t want me, as black Americans often have to do in the United States.  Although most of its inhabitants are poor, Haiti does produce professionals of color.  Growing up, my mother’s friends were, more often than not, Haitian doctors who enjoyed the respect that comes with that professional achievement.  It never occurred to me that people of color didn’t hold positions of power; most of the people of color to whom I was exposed growing up, did.  In middle school and high school, when my academic achievement triggered accusations that I was “acting white,” I merely shrugged off the insult: I was Haitian; how could I not be black?

I know that my Haitian-American status will never insulate me from the barriers I must face as a woman of color.  Nor do I want to be estranged from other folks of color based on national origin; we are all in this struggle together.  I do realize, however, that my Haitian background provided some padding for the bumpy ride.  I am proud of my Haitian identity; I value the influence of Haitian culture in my life.  And I am desperate to pass some of that on to my daughter.

But how?  Culture and identity are not things you just talk about.  They are reflected in the day-to-day tasks of life.  I have never been much of a cook, and the ability to prepare a Haitian meal eludes me.  Although I can still understand Haitian Kreyol when it is spoken to me, and even formulate the sentences in my head, something happens in the transmission between my brain and my mouth.  The words get stuck at the back of my throat; my lips won’t form the right sounds.  The language comes out choppy and halted; embarrassed by my own difficulty with a language I spoke growing up, I stop trying almost as soon as I start.  I have not been to Haiti since I was a baby, and do not even have memories of the country that I could pass on to her in stories.

I am inspired to renew my connection to Haiti, not only for my child’s sake, but also for my own.  There is a Kreyol class offered at the nearby community college that I will take this summer.  When my mother visits this weekend, I’ll be paying attention to what she’s doing in the kitchen.  A trip to Haiti sometime in the future is a new goal; re-establishing connections to the Haitian community in my area is a more immediate priority.  My only regret is that it took a disaster like this to make me realize that I was losing touch with part of what makes me, me. As I sit on the couch in front of the television, where my tears fall harder when images of women clutching their young children flash on the screen, I am crying not just for the additional suffering that Haitians have been asked to endure, but also for the loss of a meaningful connection to Haiti in my daughter’s, and my own, life.   Haiti, my darling, I had to leave you, to find you.

My Marriage To Jesus

ORJ15 Comments

“Today, you’re marrying Jesus.”  Spoken to me in Kreyol by Granny, my caregiver, those words could only mean one thing: a Haitian First Holy Communion was about to commence.  Most Haitian Catholics make a big deal of Communions, and my mother was no exception.  On the day of the Sacrament, I wore a brilliant hand-made white dress so intricately detailed with lace, white beads, and chiffon, that it could only appropriately be described as a mini wedding dress.  Topped off with a white veil, attached to a crown of flowers, I was the most ornately dressed girl in my Communion class.  After the ceremony, my mother threw a party for me at our house.  So large was the crowd that preparation of the traditional Haitian dishes that would be served to our guests—lanbi, griyo, diri kole, banan peze, pen patat—began several days in advance.  I ran around the yard with the other children, while my parents and their guests talked, laughed, and danced the night away.  And because no Haitian Communion celebration is complete without First Holy Communion party favors, the hand-made white-chocolate lollipops (in the shape of the Eucharist, and of praying hands), candy-covered almonds wrapped in squares of white lace, and white lapel pins, all bore a ribbon with my name on it—“My First Holy Communion.”  Marrying Jesus, indeed.

Years later, my marriage to Jesus went the way of many American marriages: we separated.  The day a Catholic priest advised me, and the congregation of mostly working-class Blacks, that John Kerry’s stem-cell research platform transformed a vote for him into a sin that must be confessed was the last time I set foot in a Catholic church.  The day a Baptist pastor running a “New Members” class suggested to the participants (also made up, primarily, of working-class Blacks) that we weren’t meant to enjoy work was the last day I set foot in a Baptist church.  The hypocrisy of the former (so, Bush’s death-penalty stance did not similarly convey a disregard for life?), and the classism of the latter (what, only wealthy Whites got to pursue fulfilling careers?) have led me to avoid organized religion in general.  I am now, however, the mother of a 7-month old baby; and not to be too cliché, but the development of her spirituality weighs heavily on my soul.

My mother didn’t stop with a First Holy Communion; she enrolled me in religion classes that ultimately led to my making the sacrament of Confirmation.  Her persistence ensured not only that I understood the tenets of Christianity, but also that I have a store of beautiful memories associated with Christianity, no matter how estranged I am from the religion today.  I remember releasing into an Easter Sunday sky helium balloons, stuffed with scrolls bearing the message: “He Is Risen.”  I remember playing hand bells at Christmas; I remember attending midnight mass.

Today, I do not believe in the things that human beings, in our limitations, make God out to be—racist; sexist; homophobic; classist.  But I do believe in God, and so it’s important to me that my daughter also develops an understanding of something that is bigger than her; that she cultivates faith in a Higher Power that is guiding her life.  The academic in me wants her to have an understanding of the doctrinal underpinnings of the Judeo-Christian religions.  The mother in me wants her to develop her own cache of warm memories, reminding her of her special relationship with God.  But memories are not reason enough to expose her to those teachings I find so unacceptable in most religious institutions.  And so, I find myself unsure of how to proceed.  Is it time to join a church, if only for her sake?  Will I be cheating my daughter out of important cultural experiences if we don’t return to organized religion?  Are there other ways for us to teach her to be grateful for the gift of her life, a gift that surely comes from a Higher Being?

I don’t know how we will answer these questions, or what lies in store for my relationship with Jesus, but like many marriages going through a separation, it’s often the children that provide the motivation for reconciliation.