Category: childrearing

I am here now

rlb0886319 Comments

I was as they say raised in the church. We started going after my mother, sister and I moved to our small, upper middle class, mainly white town. I had spent the first 7 years of my life in the Bronx surrounded by various shades of brown and black. I played with kids who were mixed like me. There were no strange looks or questions. I woke up and went to sleep with the sounds of the city in my ear. You could be easily entertained just by simply looking out your window. If I was well behaved, I could sit next to my grandmother in the front of our building and listen to her talking with her friends. They would cackle, suck teetch and talk in low whispers over the latest news. After my parents split up, we left the city and headed for New Jersey. We ended up in a sleepy town where no one seemed to make any noise. It was a place where the ice cream truck did not visit and the night was terrifying because of the silence.

It turned out the only other black family on our side of town was my sister’s pre-school teacher. Her family invited us to the church that would soon become our own. They also became a vital part of our lives with her parents becoming our godparents. That was important for two little girls whose family seemed and was so far away. All of the isolation and awkwardness I felt in school, the probing eyes, the constant questions (What are you? Do you speak English?)evaporated when I came to church. The brown faces that greeted me there made me feel safe. It took some time to become accustomed to the stillness and spurts of boundless energy but there was a lovely rhythm to it. Other than the library, church was where I felt safe. Our family became active. I continued to go throughtout my teens and early adulthood. I was married there. When my husband and I suffered a miscarriage at six months, our church family mourned with us. When our daughter made her way into the world, our joy was theirs. It was home and I assumed it was where I would always be. I thought I would be one of those sisters who would have been there for 50 plus years. As I type these words, I am smiling because I have good memories. Even now.

I no longer go to church. I have not lost my faith. I am not an atheist. I am not in a crisis. So why would I walk away from all that history, support, and safety? The question I have been asking myself is what am I getting in exchange for those things? What must I willingly or at the very least, quietly acquiesce to, lay down, ignore in order to have access to those things? Are they really worth it?

Is that feeling of community worth the sick feeling I have when I hear yet another preacher explain if only “these young girls would stop sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry and having all these babies” our community would be so much better? Do the smiles and warm hugs hold their value when I hear that our young men need to take back their place as the head of the family, stop letting their pants drag – along with the dignity of the race -, that we don’t need psychiatrists, psychologists, and pills. If we only would pray harder and believe more fervently, we could get out of that valley. The fellowship that is real to me, something that I savor, that grace that stretches over the bad times, it pops with a loud bang when I hear gays, lesbians, trans, and queer brothers and sisters disparaged even as I know, the ushers know, the diaconate, hell the pastor knows the person who is hitting that note on the organ that helps him to find their rhthym during a sermon, is in fact one of those who are inviting hell and damnation. Is all that really worth keeping?

Sometimes I feel like those women who are posed the question, “How can you listen to music that calls you a “bitch” and “hoe”?” They respond, “They’re not talking about me.” Technically, the preacher is not talking to me. I am an educated, heterosexual, married mother. If I do not fit in those categories, then why do I feel so much rage, hurt and frustration? It is precisly because of my position that I am afforded acceptance. I am keenly aware that despite my privilege – education, skin, hair, class, being able bodied which allow me not to have to experience certain things – I am still a black woman and generally the person standing in the pulpit is not. Since they don’t know and/or choose not to educate themselves on the realities of our different experiences, they can’t know no matter how well a black woman is dressed, how crisply we may enuciate, how lovely our locs, no matter how smooth our edges, we are still black and female and thus vulnerable. From the pulpit, there is no talk of how domestic violence, sexual abuse, colorism, racism and all the other -isms affect black women and inform our “choices”. Our existence feels like a constant check to see if our slip is showing. The prevailing message no matter where we go is that it’s on us. We are the ones who have to contort ourselves to fit someone else’s idea of happy. It is also not lost on me that while it may seem that our brothers are the winners in the patriarchy games, the constant policing on what it means to be an appropriate example of a heterosexual, respectable and uplifting black male is just as detrimental.

This has been a rough year for black women. It seemed like the attacks were constant and each one was more vicious than the last. It was exhausting to yet again to put up the defenses, to stiffen your spine, to sign yet another petition to stop some bullshit. I need, like everyone needs, a safe space to lay down those burdens, to scream and cry, to gather strength, to gain wisdom so that I can go back out there. I just need one space where I don’t have to fight. I need that space so that I can love stronger and more fiercely than before. I deserve better. My children deserve better. Black women, men and children deserve better.

I am committed to finding a safe, intellectual, and thought provoking spiritual space. I am committed to finding a place that not only respects the uniqueness of my experience but also those whose realities may not reflect my own. Until I find that place, I will continue to pray, commune with nature, and give thanks for those who came before. I will sing and dance for no reason at all. I admit to being nervous about where the journey will take me but I will savor every stop I make. I am full of joy, hope and faith that our family will end up exactly where we belong.

Crunchy Like Me

boobsandbummis12 Comments

This past week was World Breastfeeding Week. Cool. There were events around the country (world?) on Saturday where women nursed at 10:30am. The Big Latch On was having an event in NYC, so husband and I decided to make the trek and check it out.

My husband is a good guy. When I told him about the Big Latch On, he was dubious. “So you’re gonna go 30 minutes uptown to feed the baby and then come home?”

“We, Sweetie, we.”

“What’s the point?”

I had to explain that we were supporting breastfeeding and could meet other parents. He doesn’t have any Dad friends, so I was mainly doing this for him. (You’re welcome, Husband.)

While we’re on the train, I ask him if he thinks these people are going to be all granola and natural.

He replies he was just thinking that. Sometimes breastfeeding women can be a little granola and crunchy and natural. There’s nothing wrong with this; nature is awesome. Me myself, I like getting hair shaved off of certain places and wearing deodorant. So we started brainstorming how crunchy people there were going to be. “I bet they’ll cloth diaper,” I began

“We do that,” he reminded me.

“Yeah, but I bet they’ll be all sanctimommy about it. We don’t care if other people do it.”

“I bet they do baby led weaning,” he started.

“That doesn’t mean they’re crunchy, baby led weaning is just easier and cheaper than buying pureed baby food. Cave babies did it.”

Husband began to laugh and say, “so what you’re saying is if we do it, it’s not crunchy?”

“Exactly. Black moms aren’t crunchy.”

“Wait. None of you? In all the world, there’s not a single crunchy, tree-hugging Black mom?” (This is asked with an incredulous, dopey look.) Thanks for calling me out and demanding I support statement with evidence, Husband. (Jerk.)

We began to break it down as we passed stop after stop and heard the subway grind to a screeching stop each time. We cloth diaper, but only because we each had sensitive skin as babies. And we don’t wash the diapers ourselves, so we’re not super crunchy. We do love our Bummis though. (These are the covers that prevent leakage from the cloth diapers. They come is super cute designs.)

We breastfeed because it’s good for the baby; and it’s easier to travel with boobs than with a bottle. Yeah, sure we wear the baby, but a stroller is too heavy to take up and down subway stairs. And sure, maybe we did baby led weaning, but that’s just cause the baby didn’t much care for purees, and snatched food off of our plates anyway.

So what does this all mean? It means that some practices that used to just be considered ‘old-fashioned’ are now known as granola. My grandma uses vinegar and baking soda for cleaning, but would I call her crunchy? She’s been doing her cleaning that way for over 50 years. I don’t think Blacks are crunchy, but maybe I’m wrong. I’m sure a variety of ‘crunchy’ habits are used by lots of Black families. I’ve seen many breastfeeding Black mamas. What’s old is new again and all that.

It also means I am crunchier than I thought. I don’t think of myself as a hippie, but I will do what I think is best for my baby and makes our family happy and productive. He’s happy when I hold him and I like having my arms free, so we have a Boba carrier. That’s what parenting breaks down to for me. The toddler is happy and safe and Husband and I are happy and safe. Now if research backs it up and it turns out to be fantastic parenting, all the better.  Parenting is full of failure as it is. I recognize that I make mistakes. What I don’t need, and would venture that no one really needs or wants, is someone judging my parenting choices.

So here’s a crunchy quiz

  1. Do you know what Bummis or Fuzzibunz are?
  2. Did you go back and forth when deciding between a Boba, an Ergo and/or Maya Sling?
  3. Did you give birth at home or in a birthing center?
  4. Do you co-sleep? Have a family bed?
  5. Is this you?
  6. Did you have a doula?
  7. Do you make your own baby food?
  8. Do you buy organic food?
  9. Do you make your own cleaning supplies? (vinegar and baking soda count)

If you answer yes to 2 questions: Crunchy like cooked spaghetti.

If you answer yes to 4 or more questions: Crunchy like semi-moist pretzels.

If you answer yes to 7 or more questions: Crunchy like dried corn flakes.

So how crunchy are you? Do you know any crunchy Black moms? Do you disagree with crunchy moms and think they should just get it together?

Childhood Independence and Child Murder

carolynedgar5 Comments

A few weeks ago, my son asked for permission to walk around the neighborhood by himself.

When pressed for details about where he wanted to go, he couldn’t state his planned route, and couldn’t name the streets and avenues he would be walking.  I encouraged him to lower his sights from taking a stroll around the block to just walking to the corner, crossing the street by himself, going to the next corner, and coming back home.

Even this abbreviated route gave me pause. I live in a very busy section of Harlem. My teenage daughter goes out alone with her friends, but my son, at 10, is not nearly as street-savvy as she is.

But I let my son go on his excursion. The joy on his face when he returned, safely, was palpable.

“I did it!” he shouted.

The illusion of independence fell with the news of Leiby Kletzky, the 8-year-old Brooklyn child who was murdered and dismembered by a stranger the first time his parents let him walk home alone from summer camp. My son greeted me with the news when I came home from work:

“Mommy, a boy my age was taken and killed.”

My son knew all the details of the case. He even compared it to the case of Etan Patz. A family friend, Lisa Cohen, wrote the book After Etan, about the abduction and murder of 6-year-old Etan Patz in New York City in the 1970s. My son learned of the Patz case through Cohen’s book. Two cases, a generation apart, sharing eerily similar details.

My son made the connection.

“Guess I can’t go out by myself anymore,” he said.

My son is two years older than Kletzky and four years older than Patz, but he sees the two little boys as “his age.” As a mom, it’s hard not to hear a story about an abducted and murdered child and not think of your own.

Cohen wrote an op-ed for the New York Daily News, in which she encouraged parents not to change their parenting solely because of the Kletzky case. Because I know Cohen not just as a writer and filmmaker, but as a caring mom, I spent a few days thinking about her op-ed. I thought about how scary news stories about child murder help parents explain “stranger danger” and many other evils.

When I was in middle school, an old perv in the apartment across the street from my bus stop would shake his penis out his front window at us schoolgirls waiting for the morning bus. We told our parents, and for a few weeks, our dads waited with us for the bus. But we had to keep taking the bus to school. We had to learn how to deal with it – and to stop looking.

And so I decided Cohen was right. Kletzky’s death, though tragic, was no reason to stop letting my son go out alone in the neighborhood. I talked to my son about not living in fear. But I also decided he needed to know his surroundings better.

Now, I make him listen to and repeat subway announcements. I point out to him the subway express and local stops. I grill him on neighborhood landmarks. I have told him how to know when he is facing north (uptown) and south (downtown).

Recently, I let him go to the neighborhood drugstore by himself. I made sure  he knew what to buy, reminded him to count his change, and gave him responses to some basic “what to do if” scenarios. I was nervous until he came back safely, with correct change and no horrible experiences to report.

It’s too soon to let him go completely. He admits he’s not ready to take public transportation by himself. We have time to prepare.

The best we can do as parents is arm our children with information and the tools to develop good judgment. We have to teach them to be responsible, and ready them for independence. We can’t always protect them from the consequences of their choices.

And we can’t destroy ourselves with guilt if the bad thing we are afraid might happen, actually does happen.

When Vitamins and Exercise Don’t Work

boobsandbummis2 Comments

Mental Illness is a problem. Not the one you probably think, though. Mental illness is a problem because of the stigma. Yes, it’s tough, but must it be embarrassing? When people are stigmatized because they are depressed, bi-polar or schizophrenic, it decreases the chances they will get the help they need.

 

If you break your leg, people feel bad and do what they can to help you. If you have cancer, people offer to bring food over or take your kids to school. If however, you are depressed, people may start to act funny around you.

 

I haven’t experienced mental illness myself, but my brother is experiencing some issues. He’s not someone I talk about usually, because I don’t want people to think I’m crazy. However, when I do open up about him, it turns out LOTS of people have a family member suffering from a mental illness.  Why don’t we talk about this?

 

There’s such a stigma surrounding mental illness in this country, it prevents an honest dialogue. When my father passed away, I saw a therapist. Do I tell people about this? Not really. Especially among African-Americans, it seems mental health it a taboo topic. Some of it makes sense. African-Americans were abused and taken advantage of in supposed “health studies” such as the Tuskegee Syphilis experiments. These types of practices, along with higher than average institutionalization, has caused mistrust of the medical field.

 

However, we have to get help where we can. African-American women often take on too many responsibilities and don’t take care of themselves. See a counselor? That’s wimpy and weak. That’s for white people. I’ll pray on it. I don’t need to talk my problems out with a stranger or air my dirty laundry. As a consequence of this (and other things, like you know, racism) African-American women suffer higher rates of stress related medical issues. According to SAMHSA, a part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, “6.0 percent of African Americans age 18 to 25 had serious mental illness in the past year. Less than half of these (44.8 percent) received treatment in the past year.” Our young people are not getting the help they need.

 

There’s nothing wrong with getting help. You can be a Christian and see a therapist. You are no more being a bad Christian for seeing a therapist than if you took a Tylenol. It’s not self-indulgent to get the help you need. It’s not a luxury, but a necessity to address mental issues you may have.

 

We need to talk to our kids about feelings. We need to lessen the stigma associated with mental illnesses. Too often we tell little boys to, “man up!” Why? He’s four! Let him feel sad. Let him feel disappointed. Give him the words to talk about his feelings. Let our daughters know that there is no shame is taking care of themselves physically and emotionally.

 

The isolation and loneliness of mental illness are perhaps some of the worst consequences of mental illness. Many mental illnesses are in part genetic and not an indictment of the individual. My brother has mental issues. He is still my brother, and I love him. I want him to be able to get help. I don’t want to feel like I have to hide his disease. I don’t want my son or anyone else’s children to feel that having a mental illness is so bad or so wrong that they cannot speak up and get help for it.

 

Do you or a family member have a mental issue? Is it being treated? How did your family react to the news? Did the old vitamins and exercise work for you?!

How Old is Too Young?

momwifelawyer9 Comments

Anyone following the news in Metropolitan New York is aware of the malicious death of an 8 year old child inBrooklyn,NY.  Those of you who are not aware, a young boy who was 8 years old child (he would have been 9 years old this week), was given permission to walk home alone from day camp last week.  His mother was going to meet him at a half way point.  The child really wanted to have some independence, and the mother thought meeting him between the camp and home was an adequate compromise.

This seemed OK considering the family was Orthodox Jewish and the neighborhood where they resided was made up of the same ethnic group.  Unfortunately, a sick man thought otherwise.  The child was a little lost, and asked a stranger for directions.  The stranger (it is believed) offered the child a ride, and the result was that the child’s remains were found both in the murderer’s refrigerator and also in a nearby dumpster.  This is very disturbing, and really made me think about a lot of things regarding my own children.

If possible, parents do their best to reside in a safe and nurturing neighborhood specifically so their children can have a full childhood.  Living in an environment where the village raises your child is a plus, especially for working parents with very busy and demanding schedules.  Involvement from the village is great, as long as the village is safe.

The question is: At what age should a child be allowed to flex their independence muscle?  Should you allow your child to walk from the local park or store?  What about around the corner?  Of course this is a personal decision for each family, but as the parent of an 8 year old child myself, I really stopped to think about this.  My son, whom I love very much, is not as mature as I would like him to be.  I can ask him to do something simple as he is walking from the kitchen to his room, and I assure you he will forget while walking down the hall.  Before the murder, I was afraid he would simply have a hard time finding our house from the local 7-11 store.  Now, I am questioning his survival skills when faced with a predator.

I live in a very diverse neighborhood.  I love how I can walk down my street and see Caucasian, Hispanic, African-American, and Asian families, many with mixed-races within them.  My children play with children from many ethnic groups.  My neighbors and I invite each other to our parties, and we watch each other’s homes when we go on vacation.  I feel my children are safe around each and every one of them.  I have thought about my sense of safety since the current incident.

Since the murder, I have refreshed my son on the protocol regarding asking for directions if he get’s separated from the adult he is with (me, his father, a trusted relative or friend), as well as what he should do if someone who is not cleared to take him somewhere walks up to him while he is at the bus stop or on the school playground.  This includes what to do when a stranger talks to him.  Children view most things in black or white.  If I tell my son to speak to those who speak to him, I cannot expect him to immediately know what to do when a stranger who appears nice walks up to him and says hello.  Or can I?

Vacation. Staycation. Make it Happen.

Tracy Bostic2 Comments

Written by CocoaMamas contributor, Tracy M. Bostic

I believe strongly in taking vacations. Maybe it’s because I can count on one finger the vacation I remember taking with my family when I was a child. I can’t recall how old I was – maybe 8 or 9 – but my mother took my older brother and me to Disneyworld in Florida with some close family friends.

That was the first time I’d ever flown on a plane and for a million more reasons, it was a very memorable trip. I wish we had gone on more vacations, but I am grateful that my mother was able to take us on that trip because it planted a seed that grew as I did.

My love for travel is inexplicable. I would truly spend all of my days travelling the world, exploring every corner of this diverse and wondrous globe, if I had my way. And maybe someday I will be blessed enough to do just that. Until then, I travel as often as possible and I take my children along because I want them to see the world and gain exposure to new places and cultures that will shape their view of the world.

At ages 9 and 3, my two boys are pretty well travelled. My oldest has seen the sun set in Jamaica, swam with dolphins at Atlantis in the Bahamas, and fed the iguanas in Puerto Rico, to name a few of his adventures. The youngest had his passport before his second birthday and is becoming quite the beach bum like his brother and his mom.

I love the look of wonder in my boys’ eyes when they travel to a new place and see something they’ve never seen. It gives me an unmatched sense of pride to enable my oldest boy to practice the Spanish he’s been learning in school in conversations with passersby he meets while touring the rainforest. And we’ve visited Disneyworld in Florida and Disneyland in California so often that my boys seem to believe they have a special connection with Mickey and his pals.

My husband and I aren’t tremendously wealthy. I’m not writing this to brag about my exploits as a world traveler. I simply wish to convey the importance of exposing all children – but especially young Black children to places and experiences that are outside of what may be considered their comfort zone. I know for a fact that as people it is difficult to believe what we have never seen. As the saying goes, ‘if we believe it, we can achieve it.’ Well, I believe that if children are exposed to different cultures, including varying lifestyles and experiences, it will awaken in them a curiosity and understanding that is essential to achieving success.

If I want my children to grow up believing that there is nothing outside of their grasp, I have to do my part as their parent to show them the world and encourage them to live without limits and boundaries. And, even when time or financial constraints keep us from booking those international excursions, I make sure that our ‘staycations’ are as memorable as time spent travelling abroad.

My philosophy is to never make excuses about travel – meaning, my family will travel, no matter what. It is important because we bond in amazing ways when we’re having fun as a family. We enjoy new experiences together and learn valuable lessons while sampling new foods and exploring exotic locales. I know my boys enjoy and appreciate it because they yearn to get away and see something new – when they see a commercial advertising an amazing place, they don’t say “I wish we could go there,” they say “I’ve been there!” or “can we go there next?” It’s a great feeling; I encourage everyone to see for yourselves.

Whether your dream is to trek across Africa on safari, be blissful on the beach in Bali or savor the flavors, sights and sounds on the Las Vegas strip, I say make it happen. The bills will be there when you get back, the job, obligations and school will be, too. And you and your family will be more relaxed, refreshed and renewed in the sharing of a wonderful experience together. Happy travels!

Avatar

rlb088633 Comments

Color me stupid but I thought I was getting the hang of this parenting thing.

I have managaed, despite a notorious reputation of killing all living things (a cactus died on my watch), to raise my daughter and my niece, ages 8 and 9.  They are not only potty trained – see I told you Mom – but also independent, use their manners, do well in school and are just magic on a stick.  I don’t want you to have the impression that I have it all figured out or that there have not been some really crappy days (and weeks) that I think I should have stuck with a dog.  I know that soon the girls will be in tween territory and then into the abyss that is adolescence.  As a mixed race woman who identifies herself as African American and a womanist, I am aware the girls need to be prepared to deal with the confusing and painful intersections of race, gender, class among other things.  The Steve Harvey’s, T.D. Jakes, Sotashi Kanazawa’s and thier ilk who want to constrict, control and/or coerce the girls to accept an image that is not of their choosing will be coming on strong.  I have at my disposal Audre Lorde, bell hooks, Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Alice Walker, Toni Cade Bambara, Paule Marshall, Delores Williams and Jacquelyn Grant.  I have mams, mamis, muthas, aunties, nanas, grandmas, mothers of the church to pray them up, plead the blood, light incense, to dance and shout, and to shield them from my own temper if the need should arise.  I am also blessed to have awesome men folk on my team starting with my husband who mended the eldest’s heart when she came home crying one day and ran into his arms telling him, between snot and tears, that someone had called her ugly.  The girls have their Uncle Moses, a deeply spiritual, openly gay man, who always has a joke and a tickle for them.  Bringing up the rear is my brother James, Pa, Pop Pop, Poppy and a host of men at the church.  So what, dear reader, has me lying awake at night, brow furrowed, and contemplating drinking in the daytime?

An avatar.

Like many parents, we monitor the quality and quantity of media the girls consume.  After trial and error, we found a few sites that were appropriate.  One came out a favorite between the girls.  Fantage is a website that allows children to make thier own avatars, play games for coins that they can use to buy houses, pets and other accessories.  They are also able to safely chat with other players.  The girls are always showing me some new pet or outfit they just bought.  Despite all the (safe) fun the girls were having, something kept bugging me and I couldn’t for the life of me figure it out.  Then it hit me:  Both of their avatars featured white girls with bright blue eyes and various neon hair colors.

I knew I had to handle this carefully. I did not want the girls to feel like they did something wrong or that I was angry with them.  However I was curious to find out why they chose to represent themselves in this fashion.

“You know, I love the pink hair and I think it would look great with your skin tone.  Do you want to see what it would look like?”

“We tried that already.  We didn’t like it.”

I asked them to explain to me what they meant.  With a sigh, they opened up the page with the hair, eye and skin color choices.  There were about 6 skin tones to choose from with 2 being darker than a biscuit.  While there were many eye expressions and hair colors to choose from, only a few of the hair choices reflected styles that many African American girls would identify with.

“See Titi, my skin doesn’t look like that.  I’m darker.”

“Yeah Mama.  I’m not that dark.  I wanted it to look like me.”

They said it so matter of fact I was speechless.  On the one hand it made me feel good they had themselves in mind when they were trying to be creative.  I could not help also feeling angry and sad they felt the choices available did not reflect them.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love that any and everyone can be a pink, pixie dust covered flying dragon that shoots rainbows out their butts if they so choose.  For children, it is a way for them to try out different personas.  They can whimsical, cool, powerful, fierce or anything else they might want.  For children of color, it just seems they can not be those things with themselves as the template.  What does it say to children of color when they can not be complex, nuanced creative beings?  When you can be anything within a white body but with a black body, not so much?

I was pondering the limits of ingenuity for black bodies (especially female) when a few weeks later news broke that the author of the popular blog A Gay Girl in Damascus who described herself as half Syrian and half American was actually a 40 year old white man living in Georgia.  By way of “apology”, Tom MacMaster explained “while the narrative voice may have been fictional, the facts on this blog are true and not misleading as to the situation on the ground.  I do not believe I have harmed anyone – I feel I have created an important voice for issues I feel strongly about.”

So let me get this ish straight.  A white dude living in the South can drape on the oppression of a marginalized body for years like it’s a brand new coat because he wants to create a “voice” and my kids can’t be themselves online?

This is not the first or the last time white bodies have inhabited the “other” in order to prove a larger point.  This is just another stop on a long trip.  With social media becoming with each passing day a critical tool for social justice, how will the internet and the bodies who utilize it be constricted/restricted and freed by it?  With white bodies being able at any point in time able to be the voice of the marginalized and have an audience, it creates a dead zone for those who living those realities.  How will our own children be able to carve out spaces as artists, writers, dancers, teachers, intellectuals and the like when the path is so narrow even in a space as infinite as the internet?

being black

Dr. Mama Esq.2 Comments

Written by CocoaMamas contributor Mikila.

I just read an article about a woman named Sandra Laing who is a black South African born to white South African parents.  The problem for her is that she was born in Apartheid South Africa, 1966.

Yes, you read that correctly, a black girl born to 2 white parents.  She was biologically linked to both of them.  It was found that a latent gene from black ancestors popped up and Sandra was the winner of the “look totally different from your parents sweepstakes.”  Unfortunately for Sandra, her visible differences resulted in disconnect from her parents, domestic violence, and many years of guilt and anger.  Today, she is happier and proud.  Reading the article made me think about race and raising my own children.

I recall 2 years ago, my son had just started first grade at a local catholic school.  He didn’t know anyone at the school, and he was not strong at meeting new people.  He mustered enough strength to ask a child if he could play with him, all to be informed that he was too brown to play.  Yes, my little 6 year old son had his first experience with racism.  My initial response was to march down to the school and rip the child’s head, the parent’s head, and the teacher’s head right off.  My husband had a different reaction.  He asked my son, “What did you do?”  My son responded, “I walked away and found someone else to play with.”  Yes, majority of the children in this school are white.  Trust me, I was livid.

Many people probably feel we responded in too passive a way, but as a person who grew up in a posh resort town, I know a lot about dealing with white people on a regular basis.  I thought about my husband’s reaction, and realized, my son will deal with ignorant people throughout his life.  He might as well learn how to handle it in first grade.  We explained to him that his skin color is just fine.  His classmates’ skin color is also fine.  He moved on and life went on as normal.

Three years later, along comes my daughter.  Girls really are wired differently.  She began to pay attention to color at a much younger age.  I had to literally brainwash her at one point, because thanks to Barbie, she told me many times at the age of 3 years old that she wanted to be white with blonde hair.  My little girl went from being a wannabe to “Angela Davis” in mere seconds.  I then had to add another layer to the issue of color.  I explained to her, just as I did to her brother, that her skin is beautiful.  I also had to tell her that other people’s skin color was beautiful to, but for them not her.

This is a complicated issue, because you want to raise well-rounded open-minded individuals.  The question remains, when do you deal with color, and how do you answer those difficult questions?  I was devastated both times I had to face the fact that racism as well as color issues, is something I had to explain to my children.  I realize now, both experiences opened the door for me to show them in small ways how to be proud of their color, heritage, past and future.  It was nice to see even through all the heartache that Sandra Laing found that out too.  Being black is truly beautiful, no matter what someone else will have you believe.

Mikila is a 35 year-old mother of 2 beautiful children:  an 8 year old son, and a 4 year old daughter.  She graduated from college in 1998, and will be attending Law School August 2011 to study Child and Education Advocacy. She is very passionate about helping parents of special needs children, as she is learning more about how to help her own daughter navigate this world.  She has a super supportive husband who is a very active participant in their children’s upbringing. Mikila is also a partner in a debt management consulting firm. A born-again Christian, Mikila also enjoys volunteer work, music, and helping her children grow into the people they are destined to become.

Mothering Without Shame

Dr. Mama Esq.4 Comments
Photo credit: thinkloud65

Written by CocoaMamas contributor Rachel B.

“I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

There is not a black mother on Earth who has not said those words to her daughter.  They are said in anger, resignation, frustration and guilt.  We, like any and all mothers, want the very best for our daughters.  We want them to explore every possibility and to experience things that were beyond our reach.  We also want them to avoid the pitfalls, the traps and the trick doors that we befell us.  Instead of imparting to our daughters wisdom, we often give to them our shame and regrets.  We tell them if only we had listened to so-and-so, not gone to that place, stayed there, or hung out with those people, our lives would be radically different.  We are so quick and so sure that the blame lies entirely with us despite many of us being aware of our unique position at the intersections of gender, race and class.  If we had turned left instead of right or had looked up instead of down, life as we know would not be so hard.

We say these words to our daughters knowing that both black and white spaces endanger a black girls’ journey to self-fulfillment.  We know we are judged by a different set of rules.  Our actions, whether positive or negative, acquire a supernatural ability to exalt or demote the entire black race.  We are also keenly aware of the pervasive double standard that still in full effect in our own communities regarding the actions of black men/boys and black women/girls.  Black respectability politics have placed black women as the gate keepers of our culture although many of us resent it.  While teaching our daughters how to navigate a world that has a morbid fascination with our degradation, we seem to follow one of two paths; hanging our heads in shame or distancing ourselves from our pasts.

“I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

What are those mistakes?  More often than not, they are sexual in nature.  We feel that we gave it up too soon, too easily, to the wrong person at the wrong time.  We tell our daughters’ we were hard headed, naïve, foolish, stupid and spiteful.  We found ourselves in a position where our private vulnerabilities became public shame.  We are so quick to assume and claim responsibility; we ignore the other very real circumstances that lead to make those choices in the first place.  It is painful to even remember that we had to have sex for survival, that those were in positions of power and authority took advantage of our lesser position.  If we had just listened, we never would have been in that car, in that room, at that party, with that boy, with those men.  If we had just listened, everything would have been ok.

If we are not using our shame to deter our daughters, then we are holding up as an admonition to our daughters those who seem to shamelessly embody the loose morals and decay of our culture.  The baby mamas, poor women, junkies, and the sex workers are plentiful and disposable warnings to keep our girls on the straight and narrow.  We point to them to illustrate what will happen if they don’t heed our warnings.  We may have pity, arrogance, condensation, disgust in our voice but the end result is that for our daughters these women and girls cease to be complex and complicated people and become caricatures.  Their “mess” highlights our accomplishments, refinements, education and position.

It is tempting to believe that if you just follow the rules, somehow you will be protected or at the very least buffered from the sexualized racism that is so omnipresent now.  We see the billboards stating that we are a danger to our children, read the “studies” that declare with  authority that we are not desirable, hear at any given time “hoe” and “bitch” out of thumping cars, while walking down the street, or as a “joke”.  We feel the pain, hurt, confusion, and helplessness though we do our best to be as dignified as possible.  We have to be dignified because we know that we are always being watched.  We look into our daughters’ eyes and see sweetness, innocence, intelligence and curiosity.  We watch them as they run and laugh impervious at the moment to the harsh realities of the world.  We as mothers want nothing more than to let our daughters have those moments but we also know the world will not allow such frivolity.  We don’t mean come off as harsh.  We don’t mean to be so judgmental or to suck our teeth at the girls who we determine to be “ghetto”.  We really don’t mean to hiss that “she” is a “fast ass” and predict she’ll end up in “trouble”.  When communications between ourselves and our daughters is at its worst, we yell out in frustration “You want to end up like her?!”

The reality is that no matter what we do or don’t do, black women and girls will continue to be under attack.  Although Mrs. Obama is accomplished in her own right, she continues to be exposed to some of the most vicious racist and sexist attacks.  A maid who was recently sexually assaulted in New York by one of the most powerful men in the world, bravely reported the attack, and underwent an invasive exam afterward has had her honesty questioned, her identity and that of her daughter exposed in French media and her role as the victim questioned.  Even where she resides has been tarnished as an AIDS building.  Even in death, black women and girls have to prove our worth to have justice served.

Our daughters will be the next generation that will be under attack.  They will be the ones who march, speak, protest, write, dance, paint, sing, and pray in creative protest.  They will have at their disposal their own talents that will enable future generations of black women to reclaim their narrative.  What will not help is shame or separation from their sisters.  When we insist that the fault was all ours, they internalize our shame.  When we use those who are the most vulnerable to as a deterrent, we make those girls the other.  What our daughters need is for us to be tender with ourselves.  When we look at our past with soft eyes, we do the same to others.  Our daughters will see that and not accept debts that they did not incur.  When our daughters are witnesses to our healing, they in turn will learn to do the same for themselves and others.

Mistakes and Blessings

carolynedgar1 Comment

Issa Mas of Single Mama NYC got many of us single moms on Twitter thinking when she tweeted:

“Such a strange thing, to have the best thing that ever happened to you come out of the most mind-boggling mistake of your life.”

It’s a thought I’ve had often, trying to reconcile the incredible mistake that was my marriage, with the amazing blessing of the kids that came out of it. I can’t regret my marriage because I’ll never regret my kids. But I’m often torn. When I think of the moments I should have left before the moment I finally did, I’m reminded that if I had, I would have my daughter but not my son. When I think of how foolish I was to have unprotected sex with him so early in our relationship, I remind myself that my reckless choice resulted in the girl who made me into the fighter I am today.

Even now, I’m torn by how to feel about my ex-husband’s lack of involvement in our children’s lives. On the one hand, I’m relieved. When he’s around, he stirs up anger and anxiety. My son can’t stand his father, and my daughter deals with him by keeping her iPod on and tuning him out. But when he’s not around, I feel badly that there’s no parenting balance in their lives. I worry about my teenage daughter not having that relationship with her father to anchor her so she won’t seek out love from random boys and strange men. I worry that my son doesn’t have a role model to assist him with the transition from boy to tween.

Yet, despite how often I beat up on myself for not being perfect at this motherhood thing, I recognize by the only standard that matters that I’ve somehow done pretty well. That standard is – the kids truly are alright. My daughter is motivated and driven. She isn’t a high achiever because I demand that of her, but because she demands it of herself. The standards I set for her in elementary and middle school helped, but as she prepares to enter high school next year, she has an even better handle on what she needs to do to prepare herself for the next level – whatever that is for her – than I do.

My son is probably more confident than he has any business being. His self-assuredness is sometimes dangerous. As one of his teachers told me, “Randy thinks he doesn’t have to study and can just figure it out, which just doesn’t work when learning a foreign language.” Well, sometimes it does, but not consistently. Everything my son loves about himself – his bookishness, his nerdiness, his love of Harry Potter, his hatred of haircuts – makes his father uncomfortable. Not surprisingly, my son wants nothing to do with someone who can’t appreciate his greatness.

I’ve learned tenacity and the power of demanding what you want from my daughter. I’ve learned the power of self-confidence from my son. Time will tell what it is they’ve learned from me, but I know they both know how much I believe in them.

So yes, it is strange how such incredible blessings came from such a terrible mistake. And no matter how crazy it gets sometimes, I wouldn’t have it any other way.