No Country For Old Moms

carolynedgar9 Comments

When I was 13, my mom was old.  In fact, she was roughly the same age I am now, but to me, she was old.  She listened to none of the music I liked.  The only movies she liked were old movies, movies with people like John Wayne and Bette Davis.  She wore mom clothes — double-knit dresses during the week, housedresses on weekends — that were inherently unsexy.  When she dressed up, pressed her hair and put on makeup, she looked good, but old lady good. 

My mom didn’t read books very often, and certainly wasn’t interested in the romances or Harold Robbins’ novels I favored.  Her primary interests were cooking, sewing and gardening — old lady stuff.  And her ideas about sex (oral sex is gross) and romance (no such thing) struck me as positively ancient.  I felt like she would have put all of us girls in chastity belts until we were 30, if she could have found three of them.  I was convinced my mother couldn’t relate at all to anything I was going through when I was a teenager.  My friends all had old mothers, and we all felt the same way.

I am not like my mother.

My 13-year-old daughter and I not only listen to the same music, we have lively arguments about the merits, or lack thereof, of Nicki Minaj and Drake.  I don’t censor her music anymore, although I will comment on the most foul, misogynistic or just plain ridiculous lyrics. 

I read prolifically, and my bookshelves are fast becoming a library for her.  This year, she found three of the books on her required reading list on my bookshelves.  We get manicures, pedicures, and our eyebrows threaded together.  We did yoga classes together this summer.  If I didn’t think Child Protective Services would come take her away, I’d sign her up to take pole dancing classes with me.

I don’t enjoy cooking, and I don’t garden or sew.  My ex-husband fancies himself the chef (although he only does barbecue, collard greens and fried chicken), so she’ll have to learn that skill from him.  She doesn’t expect me to be a bread- and cookie-baking mom.  She seems to get more of a kick telling people the name of the cosmetics company I work for.

My mother had no clothes I would have wanted to be seen in.  My daughter stays in my closet, trying on my tops, shoes and boots.  She likes the fact that her mom wears, and looks good in, J Brand and 7 for All Mankind jeans. 

And she gets — or tries to — a bit too involved in the details of my post-divorce dating and sex life.

I’ve noticed the same thing with the moms of her friends.  They are women who work out and display still-tight figures in body-hugging tops and premium jeans, who color their hair, get their nails done and wear makeup.  It used to be, when I was a kid, that the working moms were the only moms who still seemed to care about their appearance.  Now, it’s the stay-at-home, bread- and cookie-baking moms who are all yoga-toned and super-fit, and the working moms struggle to stay on par with them. 

And our girls seem to revel in the youthfulness of their moms.  “My mom doesn’t look her age” is a bragging right.

I didn’t set out to be the young mom.  While I was going through my divorce, I most certainly wasn’t.  I was a mom stuck in cat hair-covered fleece.  But now, having found the freedom to be youthful and playful, I more readily display that side of myself.  And my daughter clearly enjoys relating to me as a woman and not just as her mom.

So it truly is no country for old moms.  At least not in New York City.

Dude, You’re a Fag*

Dr. Mama Esq.15 Comments

This week, the fifth teenager committed suicide after being taunted, harassed, and bullied because he was gay. I watched the parents of the fourth child, only 13 years old, as they explained how their son was endlessly psychologically tortured because of his sexual orientation. The mother broke down in tears, and the father gripped her body to steel himself and hold in his emotions on national TV.

One of the teenagers that killed himself this week was a college student. His roommate recorded his sexual contact with another man on a webcam, of course without the young man’s permission. Twice he did this, sending it out to his friends, and inviting people to watch live. He tweets to his followers: “I saw him making out with a dude. Yay” and “Anyone with iChat, I dare you to video chat me between the hours of 9:30 and 12. Yes it’s happening again”. This teenager was not “out.” He was outed, by his freshman roommate, just as school was beginning, and he responded by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.

I’m angry.

I’m angry at the bullies themselves, of course. Certainly in this last case, these “children,” while still in their teens, are college students. The two students accused of the invasion of privacy are 18, and in our society, that’s the age of majority – no longer a minor. It’s arbitrary, of course, but the fawn must become a buck at some point. In some of the other cases, the bullies are 13, 14, 15. Certainly not adults. And so my anger also reaches the school who lacks a no tolerance policy when it comes to bullying, the teachers who didn’t pay attention, and of course the parents who don’t know that their kids are bullies.

But do you know who I really think is to blame?

YOU. US.

Why me, you say? Because you continue to allow people to say “faggot” around you without correcting them, or allowing them to think it’s okay ‘cuz they’re “just playin’.” Because you voted “yes” on Prop 8 denying folks the right to get married. Because you still look twice (or three or four times) when you see a same sex couple holding hands walking down the street, sometimes shaking your head. Because you say things like, “Well, if that’s what they want to do….”, making this big distinction between “them” and “us.” Because you don’t teach your kids that families come in all different types of packages and some kids have two mommies or two daddies and that’s okay. Because you are still trying to fit your kids into tight gender roles and won’t buy your son a Dora water bottle if he wants one or make a pink crown for his birthday if that’s what he wants because you are afraid of either “making” him gay or “encouraging” his gay “tendencies.” Because you still put your son in the Boy Scouts. Because YOU support candidates for governor who says things like:

I just think my children and your children would be much better off and much more successful getting married and raising a family, and I don’t want them brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality is an equally valid and successful option — it isn’t.

Because YOU, America, are still a highly anti-gay country that refuses to agitate to get Congress to repeal Don’t Ask Don’t Tell; because in most of YOUR states, America, gay people can’t marry the people they love; because in many places, America, people can’t be WHO THEY ARE because they fear persecution.

And even if YOU think you’re being progressive by saying, “well, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, so when my kid says it to another kid, it’s not really a slur…” YOU know that’s bullshit. YOU know when a kid is trying to hurt another kid. It’s like when a black child says to another dark-skinned black child, “Ohh, you BLACK” or “Ohh, you DARK.” Saying, “that’s so gay,” is a taunt. There’s nothing nice about it.

And don’t even get me STARTED about Black YOU. Because where would I begin? Prior to this rash of young white men taking their lives, last year 2 eleven year old black boys took their lives due to being taunted about being gay. This beautiful chocolate child hung himself with an extension cord…aren’t we losing enough of our black boys to prison? Are we so dimwitted as a community that we’d have our sons DIE or be imprisoned in the name of their masculinity rather than be the people they are? How dumb does that sound?

Our children reflect US. Not just us, as in US as parents, but US as a community, US as a society, U.S. as a country. It is not shocking at all that children are being bullied because they are gay; being gay is not something that we, as a country, embrace as “normal.” And when you are not normal, in school, you will be bullied. What is shocking is the extreme response to the bullying – instead of fighting back, these children are taking their own lives, letting the bullies win.

So what then do we do? A relative of a teen who committed suicide after being bullied said this in a recent People story: “You can’t make someone be nice…You have to help the person who’s being bullied get stronger.” I tell my children now: If someone hits you once, you tell the teacher. But if they hit you again – you hit them back as hard as you possibly can and KNOCK THEM DOWN. Bullies prey on the weak.

Fortify your child. Let him or her know that you love them unconditionally, and make sure you explain what that word means. Allow them to be who they are, pink Dora cups and all. As they get older, let them know why “faggot” is a word you never want to hear them say and why they should not allow it to be said in their presence. Ask them about who they are attracted to, and be positive as they question how they feel. When you ask your child what happened at school, and they say, “nothing,” don’t let that be the end of the conversation.  Talk about bullies and bullying and what they should do if someone does something to them that they don’t like. Role play and act it out if you need to. If a bully needs to be knocked the eff out, tell the teacher Mama said to do it.

Those suicides happened on all of our watches. They belong to all of U.S.

*Dude You’re A Fag is the title of a book by C.J. Pascoe about Masculinity and Sexuality in American High Schools. I highly recommend it.

Another Year… Another Reason To Smile

Benee6 Comments

Yesterday was my son’s 4th birthday.

It was also the first birthday I was not there to say “Happy Birthday” when he woke up. It was the first birthday I didn’t dress him in a special birthday outfit. It was the first birthday I didn’t get to sing a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” to him.

It was also the first birthday he was full aware of. It was the first birthday he looked forward to and counted down the days to. It was the first birthday he spent in school, celebrating with school friends. 

I was sad the night before, moved to tears. I thought of my difficult pregnancy, how I didn’t want him at first, of all the turmoil I went through with his father during pregnancy, during our marriage… I was saddened by the turn of events that led to his not being with me. I woke up, called him and wished him a good birth day. I wanted him to know Mommy loved him, even though I wasn’t there. He knew. He always knows. I picked him up after work and went out to dinner. After, he didn’t want to get in the car just yet… he wanted to walk around with me, so we did. When it was time to get into the car, he resisted, but eventually he went in.

He asked, “Mommy am I going to my old home with you?”

I almost lost it right there. I explained he was going back to daddy and that I would pick him up on Friday. When I dropped him home, I gave him a big hug, he gave me a big smile, and we exchanged “I love you”s.

I drove home, not tearful, but happy. This is a new beginning for us, a new path, a new way of being. My baby has given me four years of the greatest gift a child could give a parent: the opportunity to truly Love.

Happy Birthday, again, Pooda. Mommy loves you always.

(class singing Happy Birthday to him) http://yfrog.com/ngpz4z

A Family Affair

Tanji2 Comments

For all the talk about husbands and children, and the occasional grandparent or two on CocoaMamas, we don’t very often communicate about our extended family networks. I often brag that in my house growing up there was always an aunt, play cousin or godmom around to chew the fat with. Lately, my network is getting somewhat smaller. I still agree by the general spirit however that, “it takes a village, to raise a child.” Tonight, I was reminded of the constant role that my siblings (two brothers and one sister) play in the shaping and development of my new family’s future. Are CocoaMamas (at large) still resourced and supported by their “old” families?

In my paternal side’s “heyday,” we use to gather for family sing-a-longs; mainly we would sing spirituals, peppered with a Stevie Wonder or Bill Withers balad here and there. My children, regrettably, will never share in those memories. However, my family has continued its artistic impulses, working collaboratively on film and digital music projects. My daughter (1.5 years) proudly joined us tonight for a “business” pow-wow. She moderated the meeting, all loud and boisterous on the other end of my brother’s speaker phone.

I am grateful to have a ton of friends, female friends in particular, that have nutured their relationship with me over the years to the point where I have no doubt that we will always be cool. It is trickier for family sometimes though. You have to come up with common interests and be equally invested in maintaining traditions to keep relationships going. Isn’t it funny how with friends you embrace new experiences; a “girl’s trip” to this exotic location or a new movie? However, with family you tend to only sign yourself up for the “same old, same old.”

What are you doing to keep your relationship with your siblings going, and most importantly, how are you modeling the role of family for your children?

Too Cool for Home School?

ORJ41 Comments

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

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

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

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

Is “Terrorist” the New “DooDooHead?”

carolynedgar4 Comments

I got a call today from the assistant principal at my son’s school.  In a very serious-sounding and sincere message, she informed me that a child in my son’s school called my son a “terrorist” during a dispute in the cafeteria.  I was assured that the other child was receiving appropriate consequences, and that my son’s teacher has been alerted to “keep an eye” on my son.

I appreciated the phone call.  I always appreciate hearing about what is going on with my children at school.

But part of me wonders if we’ve taken student discipline too far.

I’m always on edge whenever I receive a phone call from my son’s school.  Last year, he was suspended for bringing a small pocket knife to school.  At first, he said he brought the knife to school for his “Metals Club.”  Later, he admitted he just thought it was cool and wanted to show it to his friends.  He never threatened anyone with it, and he got very upset when the kids he showed it to began acting afraid of it.

Despite his age and lack of intent to do harm, the NYC Department of Education’s zero tolerance policy meant an automatic suspension from school.  He’s an excellent student, and probably the least violent kid you would ever meet.  But thanks to zero tolerance, he received the same punishment as a child who brought a knife to school with the intent to harm another student.

The NYC DOE’s disciplinary code contains a variety of suggested and mandatory disciplinary actions for a range of student offenses, including “using profane, obscene, vulgar, lewd or abusive language or gestures.” 

It is certainly useful to have citywide standards, rather than leaving everything solely to an individual school’s principal to decide. 

But as I remember it, using “profane, obscene, vulgar, lewd or abusive language or gestures” is a rite of passage of fourth grade. 

I’m not excusing the kid who called my son a terrorist.  For the record, we are African-American, but we are not Muslim.  I do not know the race or ethnicity of the other child, but there is nothing about this incident that makes me believe the other child used the word “terrorist” as a racial or ethnic slur.  I am certain the kid has no idea what that word really means, except that’s he’s heard it enough to know it’s bad, and used it to indicate that my son is a bad person. 

Is that profane, obscene, vulgar, lewd or abusive?  I don’t know. 

When my son got home, I asked him what happened in school today.  He talked about his social studies project, but didn’t mention the terrorist incident until I asked him what else happened.

“___________ called me a terrorist,” he said.

“And how did you feel about that?”

“It upset me a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m no terrorist!”

“And what is a terrorist?”

“They’re bad people who blow things up.”

A bad person who blows things up.  Not a nice word to call someone, sure.  Grounds for any disciplinary action beyond, “Don’t do that again”?  I’m not sure.

I used the moment as an opportunity to talk to my son about name-calling in general, even in jest, and to make sure he doesn’t retaliate – whether it’s against this kid, or some other kid – by calling someone a terrorist.  I hope the other kid gets a similar lecture from his parents.

And then I hope both my son and theirs return to the business of being profane, obscene, vulgar and lewd, as is the wont of 4th grade boys.

What do you think?  Am I under-reacting to this?  Should I take this more seriously?  Is the school overreacting?  How would you feel if someone called your child a terrorist?  Would you want the school to let you know?

Black Girl Pain…

Salina4 Comments

Sometimes I’m at a loss for words when I contemplate the world our children face.

Sometimes I’m at a loss for words when I consider the realities of raising Black children in a world where their image and likeness once idolized and adored has become the source of scorn and sorrow.

Being a Black adult is a trip – few of the subtleties of racism and the backhanded compliments  are rarely lost to us…I’ve become immune to the “you’d be pretty with straight hair…”  and the implications of   “you got light eyes…”. I feel sick and in those moments wish I could swallow a melanin pill and turn myself Blacker than midnight with wilder and woolier hair –  maybe even like Medusa with snakes releasing venom into the heart of those who don’t know the Beauty of my people in all of our glorious shades….

But being a Black kid?

Having to constantly PROVE that you “want” to learn, that you “aren’t like” the prevailing stereotypes…

Being a little brown girl and seeing that the other brown girls who are SUPPOSED to represent you look NOTHING like you.

Oh where or where have all the brown girls gone oh where. oh where could they be?

I think I first realized it when I saw the “Living Single” billboards. I KNOW that the sistahs (Joan and em) represented the diversity of Black: from mocha latte to lovely chocolate…. yet I remember slamming my breaks, and going back around the corner when I looked up and saw the advertisement. Staring down at me was a group of women, all  the same muted, palest shade of beige… As yellow as I’ve been called, I was offended.

And it has continued…the women and girls becoming lighter and lighter and lighter…leaving me to wonder : oh where or where have all the Black girls gone, oh where oh where can they be…

There are a few these days I’ll see, but certainly not enough to inspire our young daughters and sisters and nieces to look in the mirror and REVEL.

Not enough for our sons to proclaim Black is beautiful: from red bone to midnight…Black is BEAUTIFUL.

SO we must. By embracing ourselves and Each Other.

Chronically Colored

Dr. Mama Esq.12 Comments

I have chronic illnesses. I have bipolar II, fibromyalgia, gastroparesis, and now something wonky is happening with my bladder (sorry if that is TMI). When you have chronic illnesses, you have to be chronically on it – taking care of yourself is not an option, it’s a necessity. Especially when you have other folks depending on you. But especially because you have you depending on you. You were put on the earth to do great things, and you can’t do them if you are always sick.

Sometimes I forget this. I don’t do things that are “bad,” like smoking cigarettes, or doing illicit drugs, but I do things that are “bad” for me, in my personal situation. I might have too much wine. I might not get the 9 (yes 9) hours of sleep that my body demands. I might drive my car to campus instead of riding my bike, removing the little bit of cardiovascular exercise I need to ward off the depression. I might “forget” to eat. I might be on the internet for hours instead of getting my work done. I might overcommit. I might say no and feel guilty. I might not go to church. Things that help me heal, I might not do.

Having chronic illnesses means being constantly on the watch. I have to watch myself, watch my moods, watch my habits, watch my bodily functions, watch my behaviors. Whenever I think things are okay, that I can back off, turn away, something happens and… BAM! I’m sick, on my ass, clawing my way back to the light. I have to be forever vigilant if I am to stay well.

It’s kind of like being a parent of color.

As a parent of color, we are constantly on the watch. I’m constantly listening to my children’s language, making sure no words of self-doubt or self-hate have crawled into their mind space. I’m constantly monitoring their daily interactions, wanting to be sure that the adults around them are affirming of their existence. I’m constantly aware of the children they play with, noting if issues of skin color come up, noting who they naturally veer toward, noting who they avoid and who avoids them. I can’t listen to the radio in the car, or watch BET, cause my own people are conspiring against them. I’m constantly thinking these days about the kindergarten that will happen next year, how my boy might be the only black child in his classroom, and subsequently, his sister left behind to be the only black child left in her preschool classroom.

Being “colored” is like a chronic condition. Just when you think it’s safe to be “normal,” to be a normal mom who sends her kid to school with no worries other than will she finally let go of my leg this morning….BAM!

Be vigilant.

The F Word

I like to think of fall as a season for renewal and this year I am focused on making it fabulous.

AndreaM4 Comments

The word I’m referring to is FIRST. That’s the position I’m putting myself in and I encourage you to do the same. CocoaMamas readers are some of the more self-actualized folks I know. I’m proud of the way we share, inspire and support each other. As a CocoaMama, it is easy to find something to do. Between work, school, being a wife/partner, daughter, sister, boss, employee, and 100 other things there is always opportunity for engagement. I’ve decided that I need to do more for me.

 The change of seasons is inspiring to me this year. The transformation of the leaves is beautiful and the chill in the air means a change in fashion too. I like to think of fall as a season for renewal and this year I am focused on making it fabulous. Since I skipped the summer shape up I’ve decided to get fit for fall. I don’t make time to go to the gym but I am able to squeeze in some plies when I go to the bathroom. Since I’m drinking more water, I make frequent trips. TMI? Perhaps. I’m learning (finally!) that little things add up to big improvements over time.

I’m also taking a closer look at my diet, working hard to eat less processed food and be mindful that 40 may be the new 20…but physically it’s still 40, and things have changed. That one little hair that popped up on my chin in my 30s? Now it is GRAY and has company! Glowing skin? No problem – as long as I follow the multi-product system my drier 42 year old skin requires. I had a blood pressure scare last month and I want to do my part to make sure there are no repeats. I make sure that my kids drink organic milk and always have fruit available, but I eat on the run, drink sodas and don’t sleep enough. I’m sure that the stress of knowing what to do and not doing it doesn’t help my blood pressure. As I’ve gotten older I also feel a certain anxiety about what I haven’t done, often failing to acknowledge my accomplishments. This of course produces more stress, which leads to ice cream and potato chips, high blood pressure and sleeplessness. Enough of that! I have a plan…

My Focused on First plan includes:

  • Going to the doctor (internal medicine and GYN) and dentist
  • Buying fabulous glasses, giving my eyes a rest from contacts
  • Listening to live music
  • Saving money, getting fiscally fit
  • Updating my fall wardrobe so I can look as fabulous as I feel
  • Sleeping more

What does your me first plan look like?

First focused links:

Woman First – great song by Kindred the Family Soul

Need beauty info? Check out AfroBella

DASH diet ebook

DASH diet overview

*I have to give a shout out to one of  my Twitter BFFs, the lovely & talented @aaw1976 for her feedback and encouragement (turn off the TV!).