While our media was covering our country’s government was playing chicken and being fear mongers over the national debt because we have so much money to spend, children in Somalia are looking like this:
I can’t look at this without crying. That’s not just some child, that’s MY child.
I can’t look away. I won’t look away. Not without doing something. Not without helping.
The mommy wars are battling in my head. They sound something like this:
he's not really choking her...lol
I can’t believe you chose to work this summer. You hardly get to see your children. I enjoy working. The two hours I spend with my kids in the morning are really great. It’s true that I don’t always get to see them before they go to bed…What kind of mother are you? You don’t get to see them go to bed, read them that story, even tell them you love them? That’s just a shame. Well, yes, it is sad that I don’t do that during the week, but by working, I’m bringing in much needed income so they can have other things…What is more needed than a mother’s love and time? Money can’t…Yes, but, they spend the majority of their time in preschool anyway, where they are very happy, happier, I think, than if they were sitting at home with me all day. And they are really well adjusted kids, who have tons of friends but still are attached to their parents. I think we have a great balance…Balance? You think it’s balanced to have other people – strangers really – raising your kids? Haven’t you noticed some of the bad habits they’ve picked up from these so-called friends? Well, yes, but…But nothing! You’ve abdicated the responsibility of raising your children to someone else, who isn’t necessarily doing a good job! And you didn’t have to – you chose to! Didn’t your son just ask the other night if you could come home earlier so you could read him a book before he goes to sleep? How did that make you feel??Well, awful…
The lady in red has a lot to say.
When I decided I wanted to go from my PhD and JD and become an academic, it was for a myriad of reasons. Primarily it was for the lifestyle – the ability to do what I wanted as a career – study what I wanted, make my own life. It was also because I’m generally not a good employee. I don’t respect authority the way I “should,” I don’t like bureaucracy, I don’t kiss a$$, I don’t like small talk, I don’t do face time.
But I also knew that I wanted to work. Being a stay-at-home mom was never an option for me. From the perspective that I grew up with, a black woman who didn’t work was lazy, no matter how many kids she had or how much money her partner made. “Leave It To Beaver”‘s mom was not our reality; Claire Huxtable was. And furthermore, if you didn’t work as a black mother, then you thought you were “better than” the rest of us, with your nose turned up and all. Truth be told, it was not until I moved here, to this very wealthy suburb, that I even knew black mothers who didn’t work. I did not know any black mothers who had nannies or au pairs. And for me, even if the money was flowing copiously, as fascinating as they could be, being immersed in little people’s lives constantly is not engaging or enriching enough for me. And planning charity events would not be either.
This summer, I’m working a 9-to-5 to get a sense of what I might be missing by only going academic. And while I thought I would really not like it so much because of the bureaucracy, face time requirements, and other general BS, it’s really been the lack of time that I can spend with my kids that has really been the largest drawback.
And that’s a huge surprise to me.
At least in grad school, I’ve been a quasi-stay-at-home mom. Working around my class schedule, I can co-op at the preschool, pick my kids up from school in the middle of the day, be available to pick up a sick kid, skip class if I really need to. While I know being an academic is more structured than my life currently, I still see that lifestyle as much more flexible than being an associate at a law firm or working a 9-to-5.
But I’m still working. And hence the mommy wars are constantly going at it in my head.
The mommy wars are partly about privilege, and I think no woman can see the gift and the curse of working and having children more than a black woman. For me, being in this profession as a huge privilege, a privilege that feels uncomfortable. There are very few female law professors. There are even fewer black female law professors. And there are even fewer black female law professors with PhDs. I am (or will be) a rarity. And being rare, in academia sometimes, is a privilege. It’s hard to admit your privilege, especially when you understand the structure of opportunity in our society. Especially when you do not come from a historical place of privilege, and most of your family is not there with you. Yes, I’ve worked hard and yes, I’m bright, but I also had opportunities that had nothing to do with who I am but everything to do with where I happened to be, the chance of being born to certain parents and interacting with certain people who gave me a chance.
It seems that sometimes the meme of being Black in America is that we have to live the life that’s been handed to us. Especially for black women, especially for black mothers, not working a 9-to-5, or a 8-to-6, or a 7-to-7, as I remember my mom doing, is not an option. We, as black women, pride ourselves on working, pride ourselves on doing everything, pride ourselves on not being indulgent or lazy – sometimes taking that to mean that we should be at the bottom of the hierarchy when it comes to taking care of needs. And at one point this was our only reality. We had no choice.
These messages taught me to believe that even if I wanted to not work, being able to live the life that I’ve fashioned for myself feels…wrong. That to decide to use my talents to make life a little easier on myself is somehow…lazy. And being on the “side” of the mommy wars that favors being at home more than being at work, well, that just feels like being a traitor.
I didn’t write this because I have an answer. Five years into this mommy thing and thirty into this black woman thing, and I’m still just trying to ask the right questions.
My oldest son is getting ready to go back to school. He will be starting fourth grade at a public school near our home and the anxiety and anger that I feel are difficult to articulate.
I grew up fortunate enough to be able to attend private schools up until high school, when I decided I wanted to go to public school. Where I came from, the public school system had a reputation for brokenness and in my neighborhood, especially, the public schools were frightening. Because my single mother was able to send my older brother and me to private schools, I decided that I, too, would make this a priority in raising my children. I saw the difference first-hand and I wanted to give my children the best opportunities possible.
When my husband and I started our family, I made it clear that I wanted our children to receive a private school education. At the same time, we took up residence in suburban areas of Georgia where the public schools performed well. Since my oldest began school in pre-kindergarten, he attended a Christian school that we loved and he thrived. And while paying for it has at times been a bit of a struggle, the compliments we received about his above-average intelligence and the results we saw made the struggle worth it.
But, to be perfectly honest, it seemed that the struggle began to be mine alone and my husband no longer shared in the vision I thought we were collectively working toward. Having grown up in public schools, or maybe because he felt that the schools in our area are just as good as the school we were paying for, there was not the fervor to continue to make the sacrifices so that our son could stay in a school he’d grown in. And so, at the end of the last school year, I was faced with the task of telling my child that he would be going to a new school, would have to make new friends and things would be changing for all of us. My sensitive boy fell into tears and I held him as he told me through sobs that he did not want to go to a new school and did not want to have to try to make new friends. I reassured him the best way I could, uncertain that what I told him was right – hoping that this would be a decision that would work out for the best.
As a loving parent, I want to shield my boys from everything in the world that may cause them even an inkling of discomfort. If it were up to me, I’d home-school them and supervise every minute of their life for the promise that they’d just live long enough to become men. But that’s unrealistic. And yes, I do know how valuable it is for children to be exposed to different experiences and environments.
Living in suburban (or closer to rural) Georgia and entrusting someone to teach my children without inserting their racial bias or other ideas into the lesson plan is a definite concern. Only time will tell what the transition will mean, but I am hoping I will be pleasantly surprised. I hope my son attends school close to home and is relieved when he finally makes friends that live close to our home that he can play with. I hope that his advanced abilities will translate well and be nurtured so that he continues to thrive academically at his new school. I hope. I pray. I worry.
At the end of the day, I’ll put it in God’s hands and trust that it is all as it should be. Deep down I know he’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. After all, I know that I won’t accept anything less.
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.
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?!
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?
I hate a lot of things about the criminal in-justice system. One of the reasons I wanted to be a lawyer was to reform the system. I don’t think I’ll ever come close to actually doing that, but if I practice law one day, it will be as a public defender. I think people should be held accountable for their crimes against others, but not treated as less than human, either in prison or out. I absolutely agree with Michelle Alexander and the premise of her book “The New Jim Crow”: the criminal justice empire is modern day American apartheid. The other day, I tweeted my support for the prisoners in Pelican Bay who are enduring a hunger strike to protest their living conditions in prison. It looked like this:
gradmommy
while i’m not a prison abolitionist, i am for humane treatment. indeterminate solitary confinement is cruel & unusual. http://t.co/azauUeJ 7/18/11 7:53 AM
I tweeted this on the same day that this young black man was shot to death by the San Francisco Police in the middle of the afternoon in the Bayview, a small but solid population of black folks: (WARNING: THIS IS VERY GRAPHIC – IT SHOWS A PERSON DYING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET)
The original reports were that the young man was unarmed, running from the police because he didn’t pay his $2 transfer fare on the bus. The early reports, and certainly what was believed by the people on the street at the time, was that the police shot the boy for no reason whatsoever, simply because he was running. The scene, caught of course on cell phone video, was reminiscent of the New Year’s Day killing of Oscar Grant, and brought back to memory for all black folks (and I’m sure others) of the racial tensions between Bay Area Police and a small, but present, black minority population.
Evidence quickly came to light, however, that this young man’s death – 19 year old Kenneth Harding – may not have been the work of trigger-happy racist police. A witness – a black man – came forward with a cell phone video in which a small silver gun could be seen only 25 feet from where the man lay dying after being shot by the police. The police allege that the man shot at them first as he ran, and the video appears to confirm that there was a gun at the scene. He also had gun residue on his hand. The video also shows another man picking up the gun at the scene, perhaps in an attempt to hide it. Later, however, the police recovered the small gun. Witnesses have said that they saw the young man shoot at the police from a gun he held under his arm, and technology that measures gun shots recorded, at the time of the incident, a single shot fired, followed 2 seconds later by 9 shots in rapid succession, evidence that the young man got one shot off before the police took him down.
Furthermore, reports say that the young man was wanted as a person of interest in the murder of a woman in Seattle from just the week before, giving some credence to the idea that he would have a gun, and would also run and shoot at police in an attempt to not be apprehended.
The thing is, it seems that none of this evidence against calling the police racist pigs really matters to anyone. At first, there was this outpouring of anger coming from everywhere. My twitter timeline was filled with angry tweets about how unjustified this killing was, how the police are racists pigs, how wrong it was for them to just stand by and watch the boy die. I got emails from colleagues, the whiter the more angry, who in no uncertain words expressed empathy for black communities like the Bayview, and how it was now all too clear why certain communities can’t trust public institutions like the police, or even schools. But once people got more information, instead of continuing the conversation, what did I hear instead?
Muthfvcking crickets.
This bothers me, despite my natural inclination to cast a wary eye toward the justice system. Why? One, because in my heart of hearts, I do believe that had this man been white, he would have been shot too. In my experience, living in a big city: You shoot at cops, you get shot. Period. The end. Would the cops have let him lay on the street and die? It’s hard to say, because I don’t know if the black folks in the community would have rallied around saying, “Fvck the police!!” and “Your career’s is over!” and “Where’s the gun?” Perhaps the cops would have been able to attend to him had there not been the making of a riot around his dying body. Would the mayor be forced into having a community meeting with the Bayview community about this shooting, of someone who is not even from the community, if this had been a white man where there is ample evidence that he shot at the police first? I doubt it.
And what really bothers me the most is this: Where is the outrage that this young man thought it okay to whip out a gun at 4:45 in the afternoon and start shooting in a crowded transit area? Where is the outrage that someone tried to cover up the real facts in this case, by removing the gun and shell casings, attempting to create more animosity between the people of this community and the police they desperately need to protect them against their own people who are trying to destroy them? Why are we not thanking the police department 1) for trying to keep Muni fares low by making sure everyone pays like they are supposed to and 2) for shooting a man who had no such regard for anyone else’s life as evidenced by him pulling a gun to save HIMSELF in the middle of the damn afternoon?
Why does someone have to die – and in this case, perhaps “justifiably” because police must protect themselves in order to protect us and our children – in order for us to rally and hold folks accountable, including ourselves?
While I understand the hurt and pain of the long legacy of police brutality in this country, sometimes wrong is wrong. That’s what we should be teaching our children, no matter what color they are. I was so glad my children were far away from our morning ritual of watching the news Monday morning. I couldn’t have them see Black people yelling at Black cops while a Black man lay in the middle of the street dying because he pulled out a gun and shot at police. So much is so incredibly wrong with that picture, both on the surface and below it.
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!
This was the email I got from the baby’s godmother. If you don’t have a teen in your life you may not know about Rue and the Hunger Games, but trust, they’re big.
Hunger games is a young adult dystopian novel that’s like a fight to the death reality show with children. Rue is a pivotal character both in terms of the survival of Katniss, the main character, and the shaping of the revolution. She is described in the book as being brown. Of course, the descriptions of characters in the book did not stop casting directors from bringing in their own biases.
Suzanne Collins, the book’s author, wasn’t very specific about Katniss’ ethnicity. She has dark hair, gray eyes and olive skin. I read her as being kind of multi-racial, a little Asian and white and Black maybe? Collins has said race wasn’t a sticking point for her, but the casting call was for white women. Really? Really, casting people? That said, I was nervous about Rue. I did not want them to cast a cute little white girl.
Don’t get me wrong, little white girls are fine, but little black girls are also cute and they also like acting jobs. There are not enough representations of African-Americans on-screen period, let alone of children. It’s important for all children, but especially those who do not often see faces that look like theirs on the big screen. How long did it take Disney to create a Black princess? I’m tired of the images that too often dominate the media and reflect the white is good/Black is bad dichotomy.
So this is terrific news. Rue would be a great character for any young person to play. Rue saves Katniss and is a catalyst for the overall revolution for the story.
Seeing positive representations on-screen in more important now for kids and teens than ever. With Dr. Satoshi Kanazawa’s piece: “Why Are Black Women Less Physically Attractive Than Other Women?” it’s as though it’s okay to make racism scientific. “I’m not racist, it’s just science that I don’t date Black women.” There are so many ways in which Black children, especially Black girls are told that they aren’t as good as or as pretty as other children. Why else would we feel the need to perm a seven year old’s hair? Or add extensions to a one year old? When I was little, I wanted long, flowing down my back hair like barbie. (Even the Black barbie has long, flowing down her back hair!) This little girl has braids! Maybe this will go a little further is helping everyone, including little Black girls, see that brown chicks have it going on.
Rue is a smart, capable, determined little hero. This is someone kids could emulate. Given that the book and movie are for teens, I am even more excited that Rue is played by a Black actress. Not for nothing, but adults are pretty set in their ways. Teens, while not post-racial, (I love the term post-racial. It’s like hope and naïveté all in one) are more open and malleable. It’s when movies are cast with people of color that those who feel that white is just “normal” and the default have their views challenged.
While I do not think seeing one movie with one Black character will bring us all together in a kum-bah-yah moment, I do think people in general need to see a variety of hues in the media as heroes. The more you see people of color as the good guys, the less you’ll clutch your purse when you see a Black guy in the elevator. Every little bit helps. Until then, congratulations to Amandla Sternberg on her new role!
I’m comfortable with who I am and what I believe in. I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer for the same naive reasons I guess a lot of kids say they want to be lawyers: I truly believe in justice and fairness. As someone yesterday said to me, “Right is right.” I’ve never heard more true words.
I used to wonder why justice was so important to me. Why the littlest amount of unfairness touched me in a place so deep. So there was a time in my life where I routinely took personality tests. I was obsessed with knowing about myself, trying to understand what made me tick. My favorite test is the MBTI, which splits people into 16 personality types based on combinations of pairs of four dyads: Introverted or Extroverted; Sensing or iNtuitive; Thinking or Feeling; and Judging or Perceiving. My type has changed slightly over the years, and I’m an almost even split between both Introverted/Extroverted and Perceiving/Judging. But as I’ve gotten older, I think I gravate more toward a particular “type.”
As a Champion, I’m an easy person to get along with. I smile, I laugh, I joke. I’m charming, in my most humble opinion. I make friends easily too, everywhere I go. But there are some things that I believe in, and when you mess with me and those things, when you mess with one of my values, then…well, all bets are off.
And so my life is one of a strong dichotomy. I’ve been accused of being too serious. I’ve been told to lighten up, take a chill pill, relax, calm down, and breathe. I’ve been told to choose my battles, that nothing in life is that serious, and that I just get too worked up. I’ve been told that I am intimidating, aggressive, overbearing, argumentative, contrary and loud-mouthed.
For telling my truth. For saying what I believe to be right.
I’m working this summer for a large urban school district that ranks at the almost bottom for educational equity. The opportunity and achievement gaps in this district are shameful. So when I go to work every day, and when I interact with my fellow interns who are working at other educational institutions this summer, I’m not always smiling. I’m not agreeing to so-called “community agreements” on how I’m supposed to talk about race, class, and power. I’m not giving everyone the benefit of the doubt that folks have good intentions. I’m not assuming that no one in the room is a racist.
I’m thinking about what needs to be said and done right here, right now, to get it across to these people that a crime is being committed again children – who look like my kids – every single day in the school that’s right down the block.
I’m thinking about what needs to be said right here, right now, to get these folks to stop experimenting on our kids and just teach them to read, write, and count. I’m thinking about wanting them to stop hiding the real issues of racism and classism and white privilege behind hollow conversations of “results-based-budgeting” that have no student results actually driving it.
That’s what I’m doing.
We can’t all just get along because getting along often means being silent. Getting along means being a bystander. Getting along means, if you want to keep it real, making white folks feel comfortable. Well, I’m not here to make you comfortable. I’m not here to make you feel good that you’ve chosen to work in education. I’m not here to sing fucking kumbaya. For me, while I’ve always had a passion for justice, now it’s personal.
See, my baby …
… my beautiful black boy. . .
is starting kindergarten in the fall. And I’m scared as hell.
Look, I don’t need friends, I need foot soldiers. I don’t care if you like me or not. I just want you to be as mad as I am that children like him are undervalued because of the color of their skin.
So I need you to be ready to work for change. I’ll be right there with you. If I have to piss you off to move you toward action, then so be it.
CocoaMamas 