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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.

Mad Mommy: The What Ifs

Dr. Mama Esq.7 Comments

She lost her babies because of a what if. Actually several what ifs.

“I couldn’t see living the rest of my life worrying and wondering what had happened, or what if she hadn’t taken her medicine, or what if she relapsed,” said Ms. Baker, who has four children of her own.

Ms. Baker was the gestational surrogate of twins for Amy and Scott Kehoe. None of the four adults involved in bringing the children to life are genetically related to the twins, but the Kehoes are the ones who chose the sperm and egg donors, chose Ms. Baker as a surrogate, and paid for all her medical expenses. Ms. Baker had previously served as a surrogate for other couples, and at first, days after the twins birth, stood in front of a judge and relinquished custody of the children to the Kehoes. But then she changed her mind*. Because of what ifs.

She changed her mind because what if Amy Kehoe, a woman who through some biological quirk could not have a child through her womb with her egg or her husband’s sperm, didn’t take her medication for some mental illness? What if her medication stopped working? I mean, what if she went all Susan Smith on her kids, or Andrea Yates, or Amber Hill? Women who all, because of mismanaged mental illness, went on to do the unspeakable to their children, children they were genetically related to, children they birthed from their womb.

Amber Hill was actually on her way to the hospital when her mismanaged depression got so severe to cause a psychotic break that factured her grip on reality.  I remember the day things, my depression**, got so bad that I knew I needed – must – go to the hospital. The day after my 28th birthday, I dropped my kids off at day care. I sat in my living room. And it felt like my world had come to an end. It had been building; the sadness, the hopelessness, the profound sense of nothingness. I was in so much pain – my body from fibromyalgia, my spirit from a sense of being very far from God. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t eating, I couldn’t concentrate. For the first time in my life, I was seriously looking for an exit plan. And at that moment, I knew the only way to save my life was to get someplace where I could totally let go and not even be responsible for me anymore.

Thank God I never felt I could do anything to hurt my children, but I doubt Amber Hill did either. Described as a lovely woman who loved her kids, her depression was simply (if that word even remotely captures it) not managed, and the depths of what was occurring in her brain caused a major malfunction and her children were the casualties. For most people with non-managed depression, they themselves become the casualty, as I thought I was going to be on March 18, 2009. But once its managed, usually with medication and therapy, most people with mental illness live like… well, most people. Up days and down days. Happy days and sad days. Days were you (figuratively) feel like you want to kill your kids. (Just joking. Really just joking.)

Does a history of mental illness, knowing what we know non-managed mental illness can lead to, make a woman unfit to be a mother when the child is not coming out of that woman’s womb? Or when a custody battle arises – what kind of information do we think is relevant to show whether a mother would be fit or not? I don’t think I’m getting divorced any time soon (if you know differently, I hope y’all got my back), but it is always in the back of my mind that with the right lawyer, the fact that I spent a week on the psychiatric unit of a hospital when my children were 1 and 3 years old surely cannot bode well for me. Or that I take 4 anti-depressant/anti-psychotic medications daily to manage bipolar disorder, and given my history, will likely need to take them for the rest of my life to function “well.” Or that I have to see a psychologist and psychiatrist on a regular schedule or that I’ve been in a day program.

I feel for Amy Kehoe, the woman who lost the babies in the surrogacy case. She’s had her illness under control for 8-9 years, and takes her medication faithfully. While Ms. Baker, the surrogate, has a genuine concern as she voices her what ifs, I hoped someone reminded her that life is all about what ifs. What if her husband got hit by a car and died as he rides his bike to work? Then the twins wouldn’t have the two parent home Ms. Baker imagined. What if she got breast cancer, and had to go through treatment, meaning the twins didn’t get the kind of care Ms. Baker expected them to receive. What if one of their other children developed mental illness, and perhaps became a threat to the babies? Then what?

And so what if Amy Kehoe did have a relapse, and dealt with it? Sometimes, I’m what what my therapist calls “fragile-stable,” meaning I’m okay, but I’m teetering near the edge. But I’m still parenting the best I know how. I’m still living. My kids are still growing and learning and laughing. And they are living too. No childhood is perfect. No family is perfect. No parent is perfect. No mother is perfect. I wish Ms. Baker, instead of worrying about the what ifs, had instead focused on the here and now, and saw in Amy Kehoe a woman who simply wanted to be a mommy.

* The law on the Kehoe surrogacy case concerns the fact that some states, like Michigan, do not enforce surrogacy contracts, so people like the Kehoes have no legal remedies when the surrogate decides to keep the babies, esp. when they have no biological ties to the children.

** I hope you all know, but I want to make clear – people like to throw around the saying, “I’m depressed.” Most times people mean they are sad, in the dumps, upset, about something. What I am talking about, and what these women were experiencing, is/was clinical depression, something that may or may not have been triggered by some event. Clinical depression has certain symptoms, that many times you cannot simply “get over” on your own. I was not depressed about anything. Contrary to popular opinion, while I may have been tired because I have two kids and am in grad school, that did not “cause” my depression. I’ve had depression since I was 16 years old, and probably developed Bipolar II in college, way before having kids or being in grad school. Depression is something in the brain, out of my control, although I can manage it, but not caused because I “do too much” (although doing too much can trigger symptoms). I really despise when people say that. I didn’t cause my depression or Bipolar because I’m ambitious or because I work too hard. I think all of it was already there. Now I am working to find out who *I* am under all the labels, and allow me, myself, and I, along with befriending the illnesses, to have a peaceful coexistence.  [Okay, off of my soapbox.]

My Husband Can Never Die

Guest CocoaMamas7 Comments

I don’t care what the odds are — be it health or chance — my husband just has to live forever.  It’s for my daughter’s sake, especially my oldest daughter Robin.

Bob and Robin have such a wonderful relationship.  It’s something I wanted for my children to have.  I wanted them to be able to know their father, live with him, and have him a part of their everyday lives.  One of things I considered a priority when I was dating was that the man I would marry would be a man who was dedicated to his children.  And I am blessed to have just that, and so much more.

My father and I have a growing relationship.  I am one of six children — the eldest.  And although my parents were married and still are married to this day, the time we got to spend with my father was limited.  He worked to provide for us and my mother stayed home to take care of us. I saw way more of my mother than I did my father and I always wanted to make sure that being a present father was something of importance to my husband.

Not only does my husband feel a need to be in his children’s life, he has a knack for fathering the children in his area of influence.  We recently moved to Phoenix, AZ from the east coast, and wouldn’t you know it.  The children in the local playground naturally clung to him.  It was so funny to seem him try to ignore their hellos and waves.  He was embarrassed, but I was proud.  Here’s a man who makes children feel safe to be around him, without him trying.  And I get the priviledge of spending my life with him.

So, you see, my husband can never leave this earth.  When my daughter wakes up in the morning, and can’t find my husband because he’s working or out on an errand, you can hear the disappointment in her voice.  He is a constant in her day, and I am sure my youngest daughter will have the same attachment to him, as she releases her death grip on me. LOL.

I know this blog is about mothering.  But I feel what I want to give to my children, and what I am able to give them, would be so drastically different without my husband as the father he is.  We are a team, and I don’t think mothers praise active and responsible fathers enough for all the love and parenting they bring to their families everyday.

I love you bey.  I couldn’t what I do without you.  And I know Robin and Alecia love and appreciate you too!

Christine is a wife, mother of two, and a business woman.

“It’s Racial!”

So while I was trying to not thrust my own oft-radical racial views upon my son (until he was at least 5 lol), he has figured things out on his own thus far. It’s rather amazing how this works.

Benee8 Comments

I’ve mulled over this entry for the past week. I realize that the subject could turn into a dissertation, so I’m going to do my best to keep it simple.

My son is Black.

And he knows it.

My son, in my opinion, has been racially conscious since before he was 1-year-old. Maybe not conscious, but he definitely showed cultural/racial affinity at that time.

Meet Quincy. He is the trumpet-blowing pre-schooler on Disney’s show, Little Einsteins.  He is also the first character my son developed an attachment to, or rather, showed preference towards. I, in my say-it-loud ways, was excited that my beautiful Black baby boy immediately connected with the only Black character on the show before he was able to walk. When he became able to talk and walk, he made it clear that Quincy was not his friend or best buddy. He made it clear that he WAS Quincy. “Mommy, I’m Quincy!” “Mommy, look at ME on TV!!”

According to this Newsweek article, babies as young as 6 months old judge others based on race. Of course, further exploration suggests that babies are drawn to people who look like them and the people they are around the most in their formative months and years. It would make sense, then, for a White baby to prefer White characters or toys that remind him of his parents or his own reflection.  So then, it isn’t simply about “racist babies” as some have called this phenomenon. It is more about understanding the differences in people’s appearances and developing a certain level of familiarity and comfort in these differences.

I realized, or thought I did, that it wasn’t about Quincy looking like him. Clearly, he is a different skin tone from Quincy. It wasn’t about Quincy playing the trumpet; Garvey prefers the keyboard and drums. Garvey could have just as easily identified with the lighter skin-toned White male lead character, Leo, if it were simply about the character who looked like him. So I figured maybe it was because Quincy has brown skin like Mommy and Daddy (his father is dark chocolate skin and I’m on the caramel side). I basically brushed it off and enjoyed the fact that he had a vivid imagination where he saw himself as a character on a TV show.

Over time, however,  I began noticing that he continued to show preference for Black male characters. His newest favorite is Shout, the Black male from the Fresh Beat Band, a group of musicians on Nickelodeon (along with Kiki, the Latina, Twist, the White male, and Marina, the White female).  He exclaims, with confident certainty, that he IS Shout. It has gone so far that he assigns characters to his family (I’m Kiki, Daddy is Twist, Janniyah is Marina). I had to think, why didn’t he make Daddy Shout, since they are the closest in resemblance? So I asked him. He says, “No no no Mommy, IIII’M Shout, not Daddy!”

I think that’s the most I will get out of him. Despite the tests run on 3-year-olds in the article, they are not exactly scientific in their own explanations of why they show racial affinity at such early ages.

Another example is gymnastics class. He has two primary coaches: Coach Phil (Black male) and Coach Jonah (White male). Initially, Garvey was not very responsive to Coach Jonah, but if Coach Phil got a hold of him, he was compliant and responsive. Over time, he grew warmer to Coach Jonah and I realized that this was the first significant White figure in Garvey’s life thus far (he’s had almost zero contact with my maternal family). It took three years for my son to come in close contact with a White person. This was not anything intentional, but rather the circumstances of where we live and the types of contacts he’s had with the outside world.

When I found out I was with child, I made a very conscious decision about two things: One, my son would be raised with an appreciation for his African heritage and he would learn everything I could teach him about the greatness and struggles of his people in this country and the world; Two, my son would be exposed to people of all races, cultures, and ethnicities and I would do the best I could to not enforce any ideas of supremacy or prejudice.

The article says that parents, mostly White parents, do their children a disservice by taking the “colorblind” approach to race issues. It suggests that kids basically figure it out on their own if we don’t intervene and teach them in our ways and beliefs. “In reporting her findings, Katz concluded: “I think it is fair to say that at no point in the study did the children exhibit the Rousseau type of color-blindness that many adults expect.”” Citation

So while I was trying to not thrust my own oft-radical racial views upon my son (until he was at least 5 lol), he has figured things out on his own thus far. It’s rather amazing how this works. Why is this on my mind now?

My son is about to start pre-school and the discussions about education and socialization are very important. In his gymnastics class, he befriended not any of the White or Latino children, but one little Black boy named Max and a Black girl named Chloe. He gravitated to them on his own, with no encouragement or bias from either of his parents. Fascinating, isn’t it?

Now, as we begin making schooling decisions, we have to take into considerations how environment can shape his racial views. As a mother who went to a predominantly Black and Latino private middle school, a predominantly White boarding school, and then a predominantly White Ivy League university (but stayed almost completely isolated within the small Black community there), I understand how much of an impact schools can have on the shaping of one’s racial consciousness and experiences. I want my son to have as much exposure to other races and cultures as possible to develop understanding and embrace diversity, but I’m not sure how that desire meshes with my desire for him to be a strong, culturally conscious, heritage-loving, say-it-loud Black man.

For now, he seems to be carving his own path. I’ve begun teaching him about his namesakes, Kwanzaa, and among his diverse library of books, there are beautiful characters of every shade of Brown in stories from Africa and Black America. I don’t want my son to be bigoted, prejudiced, or God-forbid racist, but I have to admit that I’m secretly loving his preference and his identification with his own Blackness.

Is that bad?

I don’t think my kids could get away with that

Guest CocoaMamas9 Comments

So, I was shopping at our neighborhood Wal-Mart recently. While in the self checkout lane, I noticed a precious little vanilla bean girl (probably 2-3 years old) in a cart while her mother loaded the conveyor belt one lane over. While I continued to scan my items, I heard her yell out “Hey girl!” I must admit that I made the Scooby Doo noise and looked up. She repeated herself. I scanned the area to see who she was talking to. I noticed a lovely young woman wearing a hijab. The little girl continued yelling “Hey Girl” until she received a response. My perception was that everyone thought this was cute. But, after a connection was made between the little girl and the young woman who were separated by about 25 feet, the little vanilla bean was not satisfied with the conversation ending here. She proceeded to yell “What’s your name?” The young woman did not respond. The vanilla bean then yelled “Hey girl. Don’t you hear me? I’m talking to you. I said what’s your name.”

Okay, while that all sinks in, let’s take a moment to reflect. I must have been holding up the line at this point because I remember coming back to myself holding wheat bread with my jaw on the floor. I immediately shook my head and thought, “I don’t think my kids could get away with that.”

When I returned home and told the story to my husband, he replied by saying, “We would have never let our kids get away with that.” So, here are too issues. The vanilla beans mother didn’t say a word. She never asked the baby to stop yelling, nor did she tell her that she was being impolite. Secondly, I wondered, does race matter? Does race and gender matter? I began to wonder even if I did have an off day and allowed my child to utter those words across the room, how might others, strangers, people I don’t know reacted. Did it not matter because she was white? Would my kids have been seen as unruly? Why didn’t her vanillabeanmama say anything?

This incident made me think again about the perception of child-rearing as it relates to race. Was it a race thing? Or was Vanillabeanmama just having a tough day? Just wondering.

Annie is a CocoaMama who is married to her best friend of 15 years. They have two sons, a 6  year old and a 3 year old. She currently works at the Pennsylvania State University full time where she  is also completing her doctoral degree in higher education. She has worked and been a student for as  long as she has been a mother. So, she has had to learn how to simultaneously juggle all of her  identities. While she has not perfected this skill, she continues to assure that her family remains her  number one priority.

These Are My Confessions

Dr. Mama Esq.20 Comments

(Alternatively, this post could be called “Doing it, and doing it, and doing it well (?)”)

I am not a good mother. At least not by the standards that have been set up for the current generation of a certain ilk of  mothers. A generation who is expected to place their children at the center of their universe, and make all decisions about their adult life revolve around what is supposedly best for the child. A generation that is expected to sacrifice their own happiness to make sure their children are happy. A generation that has been fed the idea that having children is a choice, therefore if you choose to do it, you must accept all the self-sacrificing consequences that go along with it.

The other day, I attended a meeting where the topic to be discussed was having children while in grad school. I was supposed to be a co-facilitator in this hour-long discussion, but I ended up being about 20 minutes late. My lateness was due to the fact that I had to take Ahmir to school, and I underestimated how long it would take to ride our bikes there, because he rode really slow.  Then I got the room where the meeting was to have taken place, only to find it had been moved somewhere else. Campus buildings are not numbered in any rational way, so I had to find a map to find the building. So I was really late.

When I walked in the room, one of the first things I heard a new-ish mother saying was that she judges whether to go to certain meetings or conferences by whether they are “worth it” to leave her child, like the thing that doesn’t involve her child has to be really really great in order to justify not being with her daughter. And I immediately had to comment that that was  not my experience at all; I went to meetings or conferences or had lunch or coffee with people just because I wanted to. I don’t justify things based on how important they are in relation to my kids – that bar would be really too high.

My world does not center around my children. I do not make all decisions about what I do depending on whether they are “more important” than spending time with my family. Having down time to do whatever I truly feel like doing, which many times is NOT being with my kids,  is really important too.

And so my confession is this: while many people find the balance between work and family/children to be that they are giving too much to family (because they want to) and not enough to work, I find myself in the opposite position – according to the mainstream standard, I give too much to work and leisure and not enough to family. My children are not the center of my world. But I bristle at the thought that this means I love my children any less than the next mother. I do breathe a certain sigh of relief when I leave my house in the morning, going to do what I really love to do, which is to read and research and write. But I also know they are in very loving hands, doing arts and dancing, singing and playing, getting undivided attention that they simply wouldn’t get from me.

Part of my lack of mainstream mothering is my upbringing – I’ve watched women give their all to their children, against what I think they really wanted to do, and I think they were not happy doing so.  I don’t ever want to resent my children for stealing my dreams. On the other hand though, my parents had lives that did not involve me – my dad was a musician and played gigs away from home, and my mom also went to school. So I saw them doing it, living lives separate and apart from us kids.  Another part is my personality – the need to always be learning some esoteric academic discipline runs deep, and always being with my kids, even if I could be, would simply not work. I’m on the computer, they’re under my feet, climbing all over me. I can give an hour or two, but the pull of books or the computer is really strong. I am really independent and an extroverted introvert too – I need alone time until I don’t need it anymore. And alone means without my kids. Another part has been mental illness – I have bipolar disorder, and when I’m manic, I cannot sit still, least of all in my house, with my kids. And when I’m depressed, I’m no good to anyone. Those things I’m getting under control, but the first two I’m learning to accept instead of trying to change.

Why could I also call this post “Doing it, and doing it, and doing it well (?)” ? Because I’ve become sort of a “face” of graduate student motherhood around here, a person who so far is successfully juggling motherhood and grad school. I’m a really excellent student. On the outside, I seem like I really have it all together. But am I really doing it well? 2009 saw me get 2 major diagnoses – one of fibromyalgia and another of bipolar disorder, and a week-long stay in the hospital when it all came crashing down on me. Not quite the success story everyone expected. But as a result, I’m learning a great lesson, and I don’t think I have the same perspective as many folks. While I want to get my degrees, more than anything I want to be a type of mother that shows the world that neither your children nor your research has to be the absolute center of your life to be a “good” academic mommy. If you meet my children, you will meet happy kids, well-mannered kids, kids that know they are loved by their mama, kids who know their mama needs to do her work, locks them out of her bedroom when she’s busy, a mama who goes to the doctor and yoga several times a week. A mother who isn’t just their mommy, but also has a life of her own. If you meet my professors, you will meet people who know I have children, ’cause I do bring them to events, I talk about them in class, I explain that the impetus of much of my research is the fact that I’m a parent. A grad student who also has a life outside of grad school.

Neither things are the picture of perfection judged on their own. But my ultimate confession and what I am trying to really do well is to place myself, and really my God, at the center of my universe. Placing my health and well-being at the center of my universe and knowing in doing that everything will be okay. Happy and healthy mamas lead to healthy and happy children. If it makes you happy to make your children the center of your universe, then go ahead and do so. But I want to let some of you know that you don’t have to, and that’s okay too. That’s my confession.

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.

Ready for the call

Guest CocoaMamas13 Comments

Ever since I can remember, I have always wanted to be a mother. I just wanted beautiful and healthy babies. Now that I am a mother of two beautiful cocoa brothers, I realize there is a call on my life as a mother.

Cocoa men seem to have an undeniably exclusive bond with their mothers. I assume the same will be true for me. I can recall a conversation with my husband in which we reflected on our childhoods. I came from a loving two-parent home with a sister who is 10 years younger than me. I was first-generation to go to and graduate college. My husband was raised across town in a loving two-parent home with a brother and a sister. He was second generation college and both of his parents completed their master’s degrees. Well, okay. What about us? We both hold master’s degrees and are both pursuing doctoral degrees. But, that’s not it. We are both employed at a research university. We lived/worked on campus for the first 3 1/2 years of our marriage. Both of our children attend(ed) the childcare center right on campus. Our children are literally growing up on a college campus.

Whenever I read about the number of cocoa brothers in prison and missing from education, I recognize the call on my life as a cocoa mother of cocoa brothers. I work in higher education and am constantly surrounded by what the research tells me my boys have against them. This is the stuff they don’t tell you on the 10 o’clock news. I also know that my maternal instincts make me want to protect them from everything. However, I recognize that it’s the struggles that make us stronger.

So, I will do what I can to use what I know about what the world has already decided they can’t do. We started by being intentional about their names. My husband and I joke by saying, “We want them to at least be able to get an interview when their resumé comes across someone’s desk.” We push them (not too much) academically so that  there are no excuses prescribed by teachers. I know there will be more to come in the future. But, I am trusting in the Lord that He will provide me with what I need to aid in their future successes. I’ve accepted the call of being a cocoa mama. Just pray my strength if I ever have a girl. LOL

Annie is a CocoaMama who is married to her best friend of 15 years. They have two sons, a 6  year old and a 3 year old. She currently works at the Pennsylvania State University full time where she  is also completing her doctoral degree in higher education. She has worked and been a student for as  long as she has been a mother. So, she has had to learn how to simultaneously juggle all of her  identities. While she has not perfected this skill, she continues to assure that her family remains her  number one priority.

Sweet Nothings

nazie22 Comments

We were roaming the stores on Saturday when a sweet, well-meaning salesperson handed each of my kids animal crackers in a box that looked like a circus car, complete with a little white handle top. They were overjoyed and walking around, swinging their boxes of cookies, and talking about which animal they would eat first. We sat down a few minutes later to drink some coffee and tea. My daughter handed me her box, I slid it open, and gave her a cookie. Did the same for my boy.

“You don’t want to do that.” Says my husband.

“Why?”

“Look at the ingredients.”

And there were my old nemeses: No. 2: High Fructose Corn Syrup and No. 6: Partially Hydrogenated Cottonseed Oil.

I said to my kids: “I’m sorry but that one cookie’s going to have to be it.”

“Why mommy?”

“Because it has yucky ingredients that over the long term can make you sick.”

“Mommy, if they know kids eat these cookies, then why do they put yucky ingredients in them?” said my five year old.

There you go. If a five year old can point out the disconnect here, why can’t the food manufacturers? We all know why: MONEY.

Key disclosure: My household went fully militant about food after I had a health crisis in 2007. And by crisis, I mean CRISIS. The kind you don’t want to have with a one- and three-year-old in the house who need their mamas for a long time to come. And so, with a few exceptions at birthday parties, holidays and the like, no high fructose corn syrup, no trans fats, and low sugar and white flour. Mostly fruits, vegetables, whole grains and fish. Organic if it’s affordable.

I’m trying to balance letting my kids be ‘normal’ children who love to eat sweets and enjoy ice cream and cookies once in while with eating patterns that become habits that last a lifetime. My own parents’ permissiveness about cakes, cookies and candy translated into a lifelong sugar addiction which I was only able to kick when I was looking death in the face. And even now I struggle with those cravings daily.

Remember all the hoopla about the trans fats in Oreos a few years back? Well, have you checked the labels of your average candy bars lately? It’s highly likely that the ingredients will include some form of corn syrup and/or partially hydrogenated oils, artificial flavoring and coloring. (Ditto for some of the top brands of yogurt marketed directly to children. And don’t get me started on Nutrasweet.) Who are the primary consumers of these crap-laden foods? Children, of course! 

Which one of our stomachs didn’t turn when the research came out last year about the far higher prevalence of obesity among Black and Hispanic children? And that on the whole, obese children will have more and longer hospital stays? My oncologist friend once told me that the medical community is now seeing diseases among children that they only used to see in the elderly a few decades ago. And that blame for these illnesses can be laid squarely at the door of what our children are eating and being exposed to in their environment. 

Why wouldn’t manufacturers want the BEST stuff for our children? Because it translates into less dollars. Why does it ALWAYS have to be about dollars? (Am I starting to sound naive? Trust me, it’s one of my best qualities.)

How do we change this aspect of our society? If you have any ideas, let me know. For now, my efforts are mostly on the homefront.

Love Always.

My Daughter Has Short Hair

Guest CocoaMamas5 Comments

When my daughter three-year old daughter was born, she was a baldy.  It didn’t phase me at the time.  In my eyes, she was one of the most beautiful little angels I had ever witnessed in my life.  I didn’t look at her that first time and think to myself “Aww man, she’s bald.”  All I knew was that I loved her, and she belonged to me.  And all was well in the world.

Robin was a long and healthy baby.  She was curious about the world, opened her eyes two days after she was born, and was even holding her own bottle at 2 months old.  (I have the pictures to prove it.)

But with all of her growing and becoming, her hair just didn’t seem to grow.  As she grew older and taller than most her age, it became more and more apparent that her hair was not growing at the average rate.

So, what was I to do?  I didn’t want to instill negative implications in my little girl, just because her hair was shorter than everyone else’s.  But I also knew how important having hair would mean to her, as she looked around at the other children in her daycare, or even in our church.

So, I took on the challenge of paying extra special attention to each hair follicle.  I massaged her scalp, applied oils and creams, and even went as far as giving her a silk scarf of her very own.  Each time my husband and I looked at her, one of us made sure to tell her how beautiful she was — and why.  And I prayed “Lord, please don’t let my daughter feel bad about her short hair.”  It consumed me.  I didn’t want to be a bad mother, and ignore my daughters needs.

Then, something happened.  Something that would change not only the way I think about myself but how I think about hair.

I was watching Caillou with my daughter one evening,.  Caillou is children’s television show where the main character is a 4-year old little boy.  A little boy with no hair.  And it hit me.  Why didn’t the producers of the show give Caillou any hair?  Was he sick?  Did he not have hair in the first episode, and they just didn’t think to add any later?  I had to look it up on the internet.  I mean, the boy had NO HAIR!  Not even a few wisps like Charlie Brown.  Someone had to have noticed it before.

Well, it turns out that Caillou has no hair — because he doesn’t have any hair.  The producers of the show originally intented for Caillou’s character to be younger, but when it was brought to the US, they decided he should be older, and still be bald.

When children were asked why they thought Caillou had no hair, they replied “Because he doesn’t.”  They didn’t see him as lacking anything valuable, just that he was a little boy with skin on the top of his head.

As I read it this, it occurred to me that maybe Robin didn’t think of herself as having short hair but that she was who God created her to be.

“What a fool I was for worrying about how long or short her hair was,” I thought to myself.

There’s nothing wrong with having short hair, anymore than long hair, or curly hair, or straight hair.

So, from that day on the Internet, I decided I would change my attitude about hair and celebrate it in every length, shape and form.  Yes, I still take care of my daughter’s hair, and teach her proper hair management.  But my motivation isn’t to grow her hair before she realizes how short it is — as if short hair is a handicap of some sort.   I just want my daughter to learn and continue to embrace who she is.

Maybe one day, she’s rock a short cut because she enjoys it.  And that is just fine by me.

Christine is a wife, mother of two, and a business woman.