Last night I had a dream that my dad was the new President of the United States. As the first family, we enjoyed a succession of balls and parties on Inauguration night, and when it was all over we rode the elevator up to the top floor of our hotel.
It was just the four of us in the elevator. "Are you nervous, Dad?" I asked, referring to all the responsibilities that now lay before him.
"Yeah, a little," he said. "They tell me it's going to hurt."
"Huh?" I said.
Just then the elevator doors opened to reveal a panel of doctors in crisp white coats. "Are you ready, Mr. President?" they asked. My father stepped forward.
"I'll see you all after the surgery," he told us.
Then they removed the top of his head and implanted his brain with the wisdom and experience of all the previous presidents.
They left out George W. Bush.
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Half black is the new black (bitch)
Some months ago, Tina Fey, while commentating on then-Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton, made this declaration: "Bitch is the new black!" And I laughed.
A few weeks later Tracy Morgan responded with a declaration of his own: "Bitch may be the new black, but black is the new president, bitch." And I roared.
But then yesterday, while surfing the internet, I came across this statement: Half black is the new black. And I thought: Whoa.
It was a genuine C&C Music Factory moment, truly one of those things that made me go "Hmm".
Yesterday I attended the Martin Luther King festivities down at the Civic Center. The Glide Ensemble sang. After the program was over I hung around outside for a while, taking pictures and soaking in the atmosphere of the city one day before our new president took office.
Most people were wearing Obama t-shirts, but there was one small girl whose shirt caught my eye. It said: little mixed girl.
She was a beautiful child: biracial with light eyes and a cloud of dark hair. I bent down towards her and smiled. "I like your shirt!" I said, but she just stared at me, hiding behind her mother's legs.
When I got home I went online, looking for that t-shirt. To my surprise I found a range of clothing dedicated to multi-ethnic people. "Are we a market?" I wondered aloud, knowing even as I spoke the words that the answer was yes, that I was foolish not to have realized this. It was while I was searching for t-shirts that I stumbled on the words half black is the new black. Referring, of course, to the president.
Well, that made me think. Black people all over the nation are rejoicing that today, a man who looks like them took up the highest office in the land. We are calling him our first black president.
I feel that joy. I feel that relief, I feel that justice, I feel that hope. I feel it for my dad, a black man, for my grandmother, from whom Alzheimer's has likely robbed the meaning of this day. I feel it for those members of my family who never thought they'd live to see this, and for those who didn't live to see it. That's my responsibility, you know? That's my place in history: I am a witness to this day, to what it means.
But all along I've been looking at this through the lens of my black history. And you know what? I am not a black woman.
I am a biracial woman, both black and white. I have always looked at life from one side or the other, trying to see both sides of every issue. Interestingly, I am also a Libra, constantly striving for balance. I took turns seeing things from each point of view.
I don't think I ever fully realized, until this day, that as a multi-ethnic person, I am a race unto myself. I am more than half my father and half my mother. I suppose most people don't take so long to self-identify, but when your folks look so different and come from such different backgrounds, it's easy to spend your life quantifying which parts of you come from which parent. And I don't think it ever occurred to me that there is something about me that stands alone. I know something about what it means to be white, because my mom taught me that. And I know something about what it means to be black, because my dad taught me that. But they couldn't teach me what it means to be mixed, and I guess I'm still learning it for myself.
A couple of years ago Monte and I were browsing at a street market and I spotted a t-shirt that made me gasp. The design on the shirt was from a page of an old standardized test, the part where you had to fill in the bubble that described your racial identity. Choose one of the following, the shirt said: Black / White / Other. The Other bubble was filled in.
I grabbed Monte by the arm. "Look at this," I whispered.
"Cool," he said.
I shook my head. "That's me," I told him.
"Yeah, it's cool," he said.
And I couldn't explain why there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. I couldn't explain why I kept touching the shirt, why I was so reluctant to walk on. I still wish I'd bought it.
I used to fill in the Other bubble on standardized tests. When I took my SATs, I remember my dad asking which bubble I'd chosen. When I told him, he got upset.
"Next time, I want you to choose Black, OK?"
"I'm not going to do that!" I declared. "I'm not going to deny my white side!" My dad closed his eyes in a gesture of frustration. He and I were having trouble communicating in my 17th year.
"It's not about that," he said stiffly.
"But I'm not just black!" I insisted. I looked to my mother for help, hopeful that she would understand. She smiled a little.
"It's about tuition assistance, Errin," she said.
I crossed my arms in a huff. I could understand that, but I was still upset.
It's not as though I've spent my life stewing about this Other bubble. But last night I remembered it. And as I sat there thinking about it I realized that Barack Obama probably filled in that Other bubble too.
You see, we're calling him our nation's first black president. But Barack Obama is a biracial man, raised by a white mother and white grandparents. It's ironic, really: his ancestors weren't even slaves here, and yet we're looking at him as a symbol of racial freedom. How many grandmothers have proclaimed this year that they never thought they'd see this day? And yet President Obama's own grandmother, who died just a short while ago, likely never dwelled on dreams such as those.
When we look to the leaders, we all want to see someone who looks like us, don't we?
Yesterday my father wrote about how the optimism of his children renewed his own sense of hope. "They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?" And I probably have always believed that I would live to see a black person become president.
But it never occurred to me that one of my own would take the office.
Watching him take the oath today, I felt a new sense of definition. I have a race. It's not just the sum of others' parts, it's my own identity.
"For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness."
My president spoke those words today.
Of course, I am joking when I say that half black is the new black (bitch). I think we can all see a part of ourselves in our new president, and that's what makes it such a sweet victory. We no longer have to Choose (only) one of the following. We no longer have to fill in the Other bubble when nothing else fits. There's room for everybody on this page, in this age, and if you need reminding, just look at our president.
He looks a little like us, doesn't he?
A few weeks later Tracy Morgan responded with a declaration of his own: "Bitch may be the new black, but black is the new president, bitch." And I roared.
But then yesterday, while surfing the internet, I came across this statement: Half black is the new black. And I thought: Whoa.
It was a genuine C&C Music Factory moment, truly one of those things that made me go "Hmm".
Yesterday I attended the Martin Luther King festivities down at the Civic Center. The Glide Ensemble sang. After the program was over I hung around outside for a while, taking pictures and soaking in the atmosphere of the city one day before our new president took office.
Most people were wearing Obama t-shirts, but there was one small girl whose shirt caught my eye. It said: little mixed girl.
She was a beautiful child: biracial with light eyes and a cloud of dark hair. I bent down towards her and smiled. "I like your shirt!" I said, but she just stared at me, hiding behind her mother's legs.
When I got home I went online, looking for that t-shirt. To my surprise I found a range of clothing dedicated to multi-ethnic people. "Are we a market?" I wondered aloud, knowing even as I spoke the words that the answer was yes, that I was foolish not to have realized this. It was while I was searching for t-shirts that I stumbled on the words half black is the new black. Referring, of course, to the president.
Well, that made me think. Black people all over the nation are rejoicing that today, a man who looks like them took up the highest office in the land. We are calling him our first black president.
I feel that joy. I feel that relief, I feel that justice, I feel that hope. I feel it for my dad, a black man, for my grandmother, from whom Alzheimer's has likely robbed the meaning of this day. I feel it for those members of my family who never thought they'd live to see this, and for those who didn't live to see it. That's my responsibility, you know? That's my place in history: I am a witness to this day, to what it means.
But all along I've been looking at this through the lens of my black history. And you know what? I am not a black woman.
I am a biracial woman, both black and white. I have always looked at life from one side or the other, trying to see both sides of every issue. Interestingly, I am also a Libra, constantly striving for balance. I took turns seeing things from each point of view.
I don't think I ever fully realized, until this day, that as a multi-ethnic person, I am a race unto myself. I am more than half my father and half my mother. I suppose most people don't take so long to self-identify, but when your folks look so different and come from such different backgrounds, it's easy to spend your life quantifying which parts of you come from which parent. And I don't think it ever occurred to me that there is something about me that stands alone. I know something about what it means to be white, because my mom taught me that. And I know something about what it means to be black, because my dad taught me that. But they couldn't teach me what it means to be mixed, and I guess I'm still learning it for myself.
A couple of years ago Monte and I were browsing at a street market and I spotted a t-shirt that made me gasp. The design on the shirt was from a page of an old standardized test, the part where you had to fill in the bubble that described your racial identity. Choose one of the following, the shirt said: Black / White / Other. The Other bubble was filled in.
I grabbed Monte by the arm. "Look at this," I whispered.
"Cool," he said.
I shook my head. "That's me," I told him.
"Yeah, it's cool," he said.
And I couldn't explain why there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. I couldn't explain why I kept touching the shirt, why I was so reluctant to walk on. I still wish I'd bought it.
I used to fill in the Other bubble on standardized tests. When I took my SATs, I remember my dad asking which bubble I'd chosen. When I told him, he got upset.
"Next time, I want you to choose Black, OK?"
"I'm not going to do that!" I declared. "I'm not going to deny my white side!" My dad closed his eyes in a gesture of frustration. He and I were having trouble communicating in my 17th year.
"It's not about that," he said stiffly.
"But I'm not just black!" I insisted. I looked to my mother for help, hopeful that she would understand. She smiled a little.
"It's about tuition assistance, Errin," she said.
I crossed my arms in a huff. I could understand that, but I was still upset.
It's not as though I've spent my life stewing about this Other bubble. But last night I remembered it. And as I sat there thinking about it I realized that Barack Obama probably filled in that Other bubble too.
You see, we're calling him our nation's first black president. But Barack Obama is a biracial man, raised by a white mother and white grandparents. It's ironic, really: his ancestors weren't even slaves here, and yet we're looking at him as a symbol of racial freedom. How many grandmothers have proclaimed this year that they never thought they'd see this day? And yet President Obama's own grandmother, who died just a short while ago, likely never dwelled on dreams such as those.
When we look to the leaders, we all want to see someone who looks like us, don't we?
Yesterday my father wrote about how the optimism of his children renewed his own sense of hope. "They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?" And I probably have always believed that I would live to see a black person become president.
But it never occurred to me that one of my own would take the office.
Watching him take the oath today, I felt a new sense of definition. I have a race. It's not just the sum of others' parts, it's my own identity.
"For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness."
My president spoke those words today.
Of course, I am joking when I say that half black is the new black (bitch). I think we can all see a part of ourselves in our new president, and that's what makes it such a sweet victory. We no longer have to Choose (only) one of the following. We no longer have to fill in the Other bubble when nothing else fits. There's room for everybody on this page, in this age, and if you need reminding, just look at our president.
He looks a little like us, doesn't he?
Monday, January 19, 2009
A day of service
In regard to the two great men we honor this week, my father wrote this email to me today:
Over the years my memories have faded. I was seventeen when he was killed. Like most people I've distilled his essence into a few phrases from memorable speeches, focusing on the ideals he stood for. I was impacted by the dignity in his voice, his bearing and his courage. Along with Thurgood Marshall he is one of my greatest heroes. He represented the heart of a movement we all supported.
Before his death events accelerated. Some did not believe his approach would work and they publicly criticized him. I remember my mother calling us into the living room when he appeared on television, and our fear for the lives of marchers when dogs and water hoses threatened in Birmingham.
I remember National Guardsmen on the streets of Milwaukee during the summer of '67.
When he was taken from us the following year, I remember white hot grief, speechlessness and profound sadness. The Dreamer was dead and I didn't know whether the world really had a place for me. How could I believe in possibility again? Like many young people I wrapped myself in a cloak of skepticism.
Fortunately there were others to inspire me: teachers, poets, musicians and political leaders who demanded fairness and a bigger stake in America. I discovered the importance of service to others and through service, rekindled my own dream of America. Four decades were filled with family, career and the renewing optimism of my children. They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?
Then came Obama: A cultural amalgam of high intelligence and unbridled eloquence.
Of him we expect amazing things; perhaps someday worthy of his own holiday.
Let's all enjoy this Day of Service!
I am off to sing at the MLK celebration in San Francisco - and I'm running late!
How will you serve today?
Over the years my memories have faded. I was seventeen when he was killed. Like most people I've distilled his essence into a few phrases from memorable speeches, focusing on the ideals he stood for. I was impacted by the dignity in his voice, his bearing and his courage. Along with Thurgood Marshall he is one of my greatest heroes. He represented the heart of a movement we all supported.
Before his death events accelerated. Some did not believe his approach would work and they publicly criticized him. I remember my mother calling us into the living room when he appeared on television, and our fear for the lives of marchers when dogs and water hoses threatened in Birmingham.
I remember National Guardsmen on the streets of Milwaukee during the summer of '67.
When he was taken from us the following year, I remember white hot grief, speechlessness and profound sadness. The Dreamer was dead and I didn't know whether the world really had a place for me. How could I believe in possibility again? Like many young people I wrapped myself in a cloak of skepticism.
Fortunately there were others to inspire me: teachers, poets, musicians and political leaders who demanded fairness and a bigger stake in America. I discovered the importance of service to others and through service, rekindled my own dream of America. Four decades were filled with family, career and the renewing optimism of my children. They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?
Then came Obama: A cultural amalgam of high intelligence and unbridled eloquence.
Of him we expect amazing things; perhaps someday worthy of his own holiday.
Let's all enjoy this Day of Service!
I am off to sing at the MLK celebration in San Francisco - and I'm running late!
How will you serve today?
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
People get ready
I went to bed last night at 7:30 PM in a very foul mood. Losing my job had me terribly depressed. I couldn't even bear to watch the election coverage; I just wanted to go to sleep.
I woke up with a start in the middle of the night - there were firecrackers going off outside my window. And there was cheering in the streets; it sounded like the entire block was partying. Car horns were blaring, voices were shouting in celebration. I peered through my blinds but couldn't see anyone; my window faces the wrong way. I thought for a moment about throwing a coat over my pajamas and racing off to find the party, but instead I lay back down and said a fervent prayer of thanks. I let the sounds of my neighbors' cheering lull me back to sleep.
Barack Obama is president! It's a new world order, folks.
Yesterday my father wrote this email to his family:
Do you remember when we were really young, when Daddy would call Mama from the kitchen, "Lenore, come look, come look at this!" On the television would be someone like Sammy Davis, Jr., Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald -- and it was so unusual to see a black person on TV! Do you remember watching news coverage of the marchers in Alabama being hosed, or shots of snarling dogs? I do. And I remember trips to Mississippi to visit Big Mama when we had to use the "Colored" toilets at gas stops; and we couldn't drink from the "Whites" water fountain.
Once I remember Uncle Landie allowing Ronnie and me to drive to town with him. When he went into the hardware store he asked Ronnie to watch me and I didn't know why, since Ronnie was only a couple of years older than me. I wandered a few doors down the street to look at a movie poster and Ronnie grabbed me by the arm, pulling me away, saying "you can't be seen lookin' at that white woman". He was afraid and protecting me from looking at a movie poster! At that young age I was confused about how messed up things were. I was too naive to understand that a picture could have gotten me killed.
I have other memories of being the first or only black to have a certain job. Once while working at TV6 an ABC Network Correspondent, Mal Goode, visited our station from New York. He was the first black network correspondent hired by any network. When he walked into the studio he noticed me as the only black there. He came over and offered quiet encouragement, urging me to not give up. His words meant a lot to me.
Imagine how Barack Obama will encourage children in this country! I think about the image of his family getting on Marine 1 and lifting off the White House lawn and the symbolism makes me cry with happiness. This bi-racial man represents profound change and the ability to inspire all of us.
In 1988 while on a trip to Mississippi and Louisiana, I found a picture of our great-great grandparents, Louis and Sarah Watson. Aunt Minnie gave me the large framed version, having me dig it out from under a pile of stuff in her barn. After it was wrapped I talked to them and felt connected through the picture sitting on the front seat of my rental car as I drove to the airport in New Orleans for the trip home.
They had been slaves. They never dreamed this day would come. A Black President.
Since I've been researching our history it has become part of me; making me really, really think about our nation's history and how our family fits into the pages of that history. That is why I'm trying to find and restore old photos and capture the memories we each have, hoping that if Kiki, Errin or Matthew ever have children they can share it with them.
My sadness is that Mama, who was born before women had the right to vote, won't be able to vote tomorrow. The good news is that Barack's grandmother and our father have great seats so they can watch history being made.
I've studied the maps and the polls. I'll be tracking the Electoral Vote along with some key Senate races; especially North Carolina, Minnesota and Arkansas. This is shaping up to be historic on several levels.
Tomorrow we're going to make something special to celebrate Election Day and of course, pop a bit of Champagne when the time comes. I've warned Rodgner and Barb that I'm going to get teary. I'm ain't even going to pretend it won't happen.
Pray for his family and his safety.
I love you.
People get ready. There's a change coming.
I woke up with a start in the middle of the night - there were firecrackers going off outside my window. And there was cheering in the streets; it sounded like the entire block was partying. Car horns were blaring, voices were shouting in celebration. I peered through my blinds but couldn't see anyone; my window faces the wrong way. I thought for a moment about throwing a coat over my pajamas and racing off to find the party, but instead I lay back down and said a fervent prayer of thanks. I let the sounds of my neighbors' cheering lull me back to sleep.
Barack Obama is president! It's a new world order, folks.
Yesterday my father wrote this email to his family:
Do you remember when we were really young, when Daddy would call Mama from the kitchen, "Lenore, come look, come look at this!" On the television would be someone like Sammy Davis, Jr., Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald -- and it was so unusual to see a black person on TV! Do you remember watching news coverage of the marchers in Alabama being hosed, or shots of snarling dogs? I do. And I remember trips to Mississippi to visit Big Mama when we had to use the "Colored" toilets at gas stops; and we couldn't drink from the "Whites" water fountain.
Once I remember Uncle Landie allowing Ronnie and me to drive to town with him. When he went into the hardware store he asked Ronnie to watch me and I didn't know why, since Ronnie was only a couple of years older than me. I wandered a few doors down the street to look at a movie poster and Ronnie grabbed me by the arm, pulling me away, saying "you can't be seen lookin' at that white woman". He was afraid and protecting me from looking at a movie poster! At that young age I was confused about how messed up things were. I was too naive to understand that a picture could have gotten me killed.
I have other memories of being the first or only black to have a certain job. Once while working at TV6 an ABC Network Correspondent, Mal Goode, visited our station from New York. He was the first black network correspondent hired by any network. When he walked into the studio he noticed me as the only black there. He came over and offered quiet encouragement, urging me to not give up. His words meant a lot to me.
Imagine how Barack Obama will encourage children in this country! I think about the image of his family getting on Marine 1 and lifting off the White House lawn and the symbolism makes me cry with happiness. This bi-racial man represents profound change and the ability to inspire all of us.
In 1988 while on a trip to Mississippi and Louisiana, I found a picture of our great-great grandparents, Louis and Sarah Watson. Aunt Minnie gave me the large framed version, having me dig it out from under a pile of stuff in her barn. After it was wrapped I talked to them and felt connected through the picture sitting on the front seat of my rental car as I drove to the airport in New Orleans for the trip home.
They had been slaves. They never dreamed this day would come. A Black President.
Since I've been researching our history it has become part of me; making me really, really think about our nation's history and how our family fits into the pages of that history. That is why I'm trying to find and restore old photos and capture the memories we each have, hoping that if Kiki, Errin or Matthew ever have children they can share it with them.
My sadness is that Mama, who was born before women had the right to vote, won't be able to vote tomorrow. The good news is that Barack's grandmother and our father have great seats so they can watch history being made.
I've studied the maps and the polls. I'll be tracking the Electoral Vote along with some key Senate races; especially North Carolina, Minnesota and Arkansas. This is shaping up to be historic on several levels.
Tomorrow we're going to make something special to celebrate Election Day and of course, pop a bit of Champagne when the time comes. I've warned Rodgner and Barb that I'm going to get teary. I'm ain't even going to pretend it won't happen.
Pray for his family and his safety.
I love you.
People get ready. There's a change coming.
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