“My father is black and my mother is white. While a proud, graying natural sits atop my father’s head, the genetic crapshoot of their interracial union left my hair absent of his tight curls; left my skin shades lighter. As a result, I floated in this limbo of racial ambiguity that sparked questions of identity for me far too early, and that have lingered far too long. As a child, into adolescence, and even into early adulthood, it left me feeling as other, in a constant search for where I belonged. I did not want that for my children.”
There’s a mama or papa bear in all of us, and it comes roaring to the surface when our kids get targeted.
“This is why we fight for our children. We fight for a better world. My readers may remember the challenges that Carl was facing in middle school. There were children calling him a “taco.” They called him “brownie.” They threatened to send him “back over the wall” to Mexico.
Carl was bewildered. “But I’m Puerto Rican!” he kept saying. “I was born in Massachusetts!” “
It’s been a hell of a week.
An iron IV that knocked me off my feet for the rest of the week. Apparently some folks get up from the chair and feel outstanding; others end up nauseated, exhausted, and with raging headaches. Guess which camp I landed in? Yeah.
On a side note, a head’s up for anyone out there who might need an iron boost someday: for most of the IV day your pee will be a rusty color. You know, just in case your nurse forgets to tell you. I could have done without that heart stopping moment in the restroom.
Four full days where I left the house by 8:00am and didn’t get back until around 2:00. Phoebe and Gracie did not appreciate the sudden increase in quality alone time, that’s for sure.
Twenty minutes before leaving town yesterday T-man took a major spill in the road. After grabbing Bear from practice plus 4½ hours of crazy involving an urgent care visit and late dinner we finally managed to pack up and leave. At 9:30pm. With T-man stretched out across my backseat icing his sprained knee.
Plus the commander in chief referred to places in Africa as “shithole countries.” So there’s that.
Looking to raise a girl full of #BlackGirlMagic? Check these out.
“3. Teach her how to celebrate herself.
Your daughter should know how to brag without guilt or shame. Teach her that she has to make no apologies for her strength, her skills, or the things that she is most proud of about herself. She may not receive the acknowledgments she deserves from society, but that shouldn’t stop her from feeling amazing about herself!”
Period. No exceptions.
I can’t say I’m familiar with that old saying, “Love your neighbor. Except Jim Bob who owns three guns, worshipers at the local mosque, and Kim’s girlfriend.” But all too often this seems to be how the world runs.
‘Tis the season for love…
- except for those folks over there who look different than me.
- except for the blacks, the whites, the Mexicans, or the illegals.
- except for the Muslims, the Jews, the Hindus, the atheists, the Christians, or the heathens.
- except for the Republicans, the Democrats, the political activists, the apolitical, or “those people who f*cked it up for everyone else.”
- except for the lesbians, gays, bisexuals, transgenders, transsexuals, queers, intersex, or asexuals.
‘Tis the season for love.
“I slept until 11:00AM! Instant panic on my part. Was Carl OK?!…Thank goodness my husband was awake to care for Carl in the morning and meet his needs. It doesn’t matter that Carl is 11 and not 5 anymore. This can set off the trigger alarm.
You see, my kids come from a home with a junkie mom. She was an addict. She had mental health conditions. She would go to bed and not get up for weeks. Sometimes she would lock the kids out of her bedroom and let them take care of themselves. Mary was 4 and Carl was 5 when they were removed from her care during a drug raid.”
“White privilege is a difficult concept. It can cause a lot of confusion and defensiveness. In the diversity class I teach to graduate students, this topic is more heated than any other topic we touch on. Similarly, this week I’ve seen people pushing back against the idea of white privilege as if it’s an indictment that they are a racist (it’s not.) I even watched a blogger (who is white) criticize my friend Kelly (who is black) for her suggestion that people confront their white privilege. The blogger suggested that Kelly called white people “white supremacists”…as if “white privilege” and “white supremacists” were interchangeable terms (they’re not.) Confusion abounds when we talk about white privilege, and I think it’s confusion that often leads to offense at the term.”
One biracial man’s views on the fallacy of a post-racial America. Pure, thought provoking, honest, and brave. Please take a few minutes to read his story, then share it with your friends.
“…when it comes time for them to attend school, will my sons be confronted with that same question: What are you? And when they answer, will they be doubted…?
That kind of doubt and disbelief can run deep in a child. I know, because I experienced that disbelief, no matter how loudly I protested. I didn’t dress right, I didn’t talk right, no way was I “mixed” with black. As a child, more than anything you want to belong, and so the constant disbelief and invalidation of your identity wears you down, to the point where you don’t want to argue anymore, where you almost begin to question it yourself.”