Thursday, January 22, 2009
On race
Monte broached the subject with me carefully. "I read your blog post," he said to me the other day.
"Yeah? What did you think of it?"
"It was...very interesting."
I tensed slightly.
"I was kind of wondering what you meant by it," he went on.
"What do you mean, what I meant by it?"
"Well, don't you think it could be interpreted as a little divisive?"
We turned to face one another on the couch. "Which part?" I asked.
"It's just, well, it kind of sounded like you were minimizing the feelings of black people."
"I wasn't trying to minimize anybody's feelings," I said.
"Well, you made such a point about the fact that Barack Obama is not a black man, he's a biracial man, and you kind of made it sound like he's more your president than anybody else's."
I exhaled slowly. I don't enjoy having my writing criticized and I absolutely hate to think that I may have offended anybody with something that I wrote. But I had to concede that he had a valid point. I wished he'd read it in the way that I wrote it, but the fact is, everybody has their own interpretation. And he was likely not the only person who saw it that way.
"It was a more a piece about self-definition than anything else," I said. "I was basically awakening to the fact that I'd never really seen myself as having my own race, and so I was unexpectedly shocked when the realization hit that the president is just like me."
"But that's just it," Monte said. "You're saying that the president is more like you than he's like the rest of black Americans. Don't you think that sort of downplays their victory?"
"No," I said. "I'm saying that everybody wants to see a bit of themselves in their leaders. We all want to identify. This is what I see when I look at the man. I'm not trying to take away from what anybody else sees."
Monte shook his head, thinking. "The stuff you wrote about how his ancestors weren't even slaves here..."
"They weren't!" I met his gaze levelly. "His dad was from Kenya."
"Yes, but that makes it sound like he's not even part of the black experience. You talk as though he's not an African-American."
"Oh, he's African-American. His dad was from Africa."
"Yes, but that's just semantics."
"Exactly."
We eyed each other for a moment. Despite my discomfort I couldn't help marveling at the stance that he took, a white man arguing for the black experience. And there I was, a biracial woman, seemingly arguing against it.
"It's more accurate to say that he is an African-American than it is to say that my father is an African-American," I tried to explain. "Because we haven't been able to trace our family's history back that far. We assume we're from Africa. But Barack Obama is only one generation removed, so yes, he's more of an African-American than my dad."
"So you're saying he's more black than your father?" Monte asked, eyebrows raised.
"Nooo," I said. "I can't speak to that. But don't you find it interesting how the public perceives him? Do you think we'd be calling him our first black president if his wife and children were white?"
"What does that have to do with it?"
"Well, I think it's got a lot to do with it. You don't often hear him talk about his own racial identity. But what do you think it must have been like, growing up with his white mother and grandparents, only to discover as he got older that the world was going to view him differently? I mean, he barely even knew his father - how much do you think he identified with him?
"In that documentary - " I pointed to the TV - "In that documentary we were just watching, one of his oldest friends says basically the same thing: He figured out as he grew up that the world sees him as a black man. But that's how the world sees him; it's not necessarily how he sees himself."
"And you think he sees himself like you see yourself?" Monte asked.
"I don't know. All I know is that I see some of myself in him. And that's powerful to me."
There was a long pause. Monte fiddled with the corner of a couch cushion. "Well, it's good that we can have these discussions on race," he said politely.
"Yes indeed," I responded politely. Then we shook hands and retreated to our separate sleeping quarters.
Yesterday I spoke to my mother on the phone. We talked about the inauguration and filled each other in on how we'd spent the day.
Then Mom said to me, "Sometimes it bugs me a little, how his other side gets ignored."
"What do you mean?" I asked, although I knew what she meant.
"Well, his mother was white, wasn't she? And nobody talks about that."
I laughed a little bit. "You should read my blog," I said. "Then let's talk."
It's easy to offend when you talk about matters of race. And although it galls me to think that I may have hurt somebody's feelings, I think it's important that we can voice our thoughts on this sensitive topic. A difference of opinion is okay. But it's the discussion that's going to lead to a greater understanding, and ultimately, a strengthening of the ties that bind us.
Even if you have to sit in frosty silence for awhile afterward.
"Yeah? What did you think of it?"
"It was...very interesting."
I tensed slightly.
"I was kind of wondering what you meant by it," he went on.
"What do you mean, what I meant by it?"
"Well, don't you think it could be interpreted as a little divisive?"
We turned to face one another on the couch. "Which part?" I asked.
"It's just, well, it kind of sounded like you were minimizing the feelings of black people."
"I wasn't trying to minimize anybody's feelings," I said.
"Well, you made such a point about the fact that Barack Obama is not a black man, he's a biracial man, and you kind of made it sound like he's more your president than anybody else's."
I exhaled slowly. I don't enjoy having my writing criticized and I absolutely hate to think that I may have offended anybody with something that I wrote. But I had to concede that he had a valid point. I wished he'd read it in the way that I wrote it, but the fact is, everybody has their own interpretation. And he was likely not the only person who saw it that way.
"It was a more a piece about self-definition than anything else," I said. "I was basically awakening to the fact that I'd never really seen myself as having my own race, and so I was unexpectedly shocked when the realization hit that the president is just like me."
"But that's just it," Monte said. "You're saying that the president is more like you than he's like the rest of black Americans. Don't you think that sort of downplays their victory?"
"No," I said. "I'm saying that everybody wants to see a bit of themselves in their leaders. We all want to identify. This is what I see when I look at the man. I'm not trying to take away from what anybody else sees."
Monte shook his head, thinking. "The stuff you wrote about how his ancestors weren't even slaves here..."
"They weren't!" I met his gaze levelly. "His dad was from Kenya."
"Yes, but that makes it sound like he's not even part of the black experience. You talk as though he's not an African-American."
"Oh, he's African-American. His dad was from Africa."
"Yes, but that's just semantics."
"Exactly."
We eyed each other for a moment. Despite my discomfort I couldn't help marveling at the stance that he took, a white man arguing for the black experience. And there I was, a biracial woman, seemingly arguing against it.
"It's more accurate to say that he is an African-American than it is to say that my father is an African-American," I tried to explain. "Because we haven't been able to trace our family's history back that far. We assume we're from Africa. But Barack Obama is only one generation removed, so yes, he's more of an African-American than my dad."
"So you're saying he's more black than your father?" Monte asked, eyebrows raised.
"Nooo," I said. "I can't speak to that. But don't you find it interesting how the public perceives him? Do you think we'd be calling him our first black president if his wife and children were white?"
"What does that have to do with it?"
"Well, I think it's got a lot to do with it. You don't often hear him talk about his own racial identity. But what do you think it must have been like, growing up with his white mother and grandparents, only to discover as he got older that the world was going to view him differently? I mean, he barely even knew his father - how much do you think he identified with him?
"In that documentary - " I pointed to the TV - "In that documentary we were just watching, one of his oldest friends says basically the same thing: He figured out as he grew up that the world sees him as a black man. But that's how the world sees him; it's not necessarily how he sees himself."
"And you think he sees himself like you see yourself?" Monte asked.
"I don't know. All I know is that I see some of myself in him. And that's powerful to me."
There was a long pause. Monte fiddled with the corner of a couch cushion. "Well, it's good that we can have these discussions on race," he said politely.
"Yes indeed," I responded politely. Then we shook hands and retreated to our separate sleeping quarters.
* * *
Yesterday I spoke to my mother on the phone. We talked about the inauguration and filled each other in on how we'd spent the day.
Then Mom said to me, "Sometimes it bugs me a little, how his other side gets ignored."
"What do you mean?" I asked, although I knew what she meant.
"Well, his mother was white, wasn't she? And nobody talks about that."
I laughed a little bit. "You should read my blog," I said. "Then let's talk."
It's easy to offend when you talk about matters of race. And although it galls me to think that I may have hurt somebody's feelings, I think it's important that we can voice our thoughts on this sensitive topic. A difference of opinion is okay. But it's the discussion that's going to lead to a greater understanding, and ultimately, a strengthening of the ties that bind us.
Even if you have to sit in frosty silence for awhile afterward.
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?
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Silence the violence
You know what folks? I don't think that Christmas post is going to happen. It's time to move on.
I am shocked and frustrated by the violence that has erupted in Oakland. I can barely watch the news. Like the rest of the community I was mortified by the shooting on the BART platform on New Year's Eve. Was it murder? I don't know. Was it a dreadful mistake? I don't know that either. Despite watching the footage at least a dozen times, straining my eyes to distinguish one fuzzy person from another, I honestly can't tell what's going on in that video. I can barely see the action, let alone deduce the intent.
Like the rest of the community I was angered by the seemingly slow response by the BART police and the city of Oakland. And I'll be honest, I didn't know what to think last Sunday in church when Pastor Guest was preaching the sermon.
"Don't you know that God forgave you, even before you did what you did?" he bellowed, bouncing with pent-up fury on the balls of his feet. He spoke about how God is in each and every one of us. How we need to allow one another the chance to repent and to change. And where would we be, he asked, if no one had extended to us the hand of forgiveness in our darkest hour, when we most needed that second chance?
He made me think.
I wasn't sure I was ready to forgive. But then Oakland helped me make up my mind.
What did we do? We wrecked our own community. We took the opportunity to create chaos. We smashed up shop windows, jumped on cars, set dumpsters on fire. We vented our feelings of anger and frustration on one another. We really showed our best side.
Not just once, but twice.
I didn't know - I really didn't know - just how precariously this city was perched on the rim of destruction. Just how great the divide was between those who want to do right and those who want to do 'right now'. I didn't know how deep the anger ran that so many people would feel justified in taking out their aggression on somebody else. That self-satisfied, backwards reasoning, that clarion call for violence disguised as action, did more to settle my feelings on the matter than the most poignant sermon. So thanks, Oakland.
You see, I was appalled by what that policeman did to an innocent man on New Year's Eve. But I am disgusted by my community's reaction. Not by those folks who planned to protest in peace, but by those who participated in and encouraged the riots. Did you not watch the news afterward? Did you not see the faces of the people you were hurting? The shop owners, already struggling to make ends meet in this tough economy, now having to replace shattered windows and stolen goods? The poor people who had the misfortune to park their cars in your path of destruction? These are your neighbors! These folks were on your side! They didn't do anything to you, they didn't do anything to that young man who lost his life. Your misplaced aggression didn't speed the city's action. It didn't comfort the family who lost their son, their brother. It just damaged the lives of other good people.
Way to go, Oakland. Well done.
I am shocked and frustrated by the violence that has erupted in Oakland. I can barely watch the news. Like the rest of the community I was mortified by the shooting on the BART platform on New Year's Eve. Was it murder? I don't know. Was it a dreadful mistake? I don't know that either. Despite watching the footage at least a dozen times, straining my eyes to distinguish one fuzzy person from another, I honestly can't tell what's going on in that video. I can barely see the action, let alone deduce the intent.
Like the rest of the community I was angered by the seemingly slow response by the BART police and the city of Oakland. And I'll be honest, I didn't know what to think last Sunday in church when Pastor Guest was preaching the sermon.
"Don't you know that God forgave you, even before you did what you did?" he bellowed, bouncing with pent-up fury on the balls of his feet. He spoke about how God is in each and every one of us. How we need to allow one another the chance to repent and to change. And where would we be, he asked, if no one had extended to us the hand of forgiveness in our darkest hour, when we most needed that second chance?
He made me think.
I wasn't sure I was ready to forgive. But then Oakland helped me make up my mind.
What did we do? We wrecked our own community. We took the opportunity to create chaos. We smashed up shop windows, jumped on cars, set dumpsters on fire. We vented our feelings of anger and frustration on one another. We really showed our best side.
Not just once, but twice.
I didn't know - I really didn't know - just how precariously this city was perched on the rim of destruction. Just how great the divide was between those who want to do right and those who want to do 'right now'. I didn't know how deep the anger ran that so many people would feel justified in taking out their aggression on somebody else. That self-satisfied, backwards reasoning, that clarion call for violence disguised as action, did more to settle my feelings on the matter than the most poignant sermon. So thanks, Oakland.
You see, I was appalled by what that policeman did to an innocent man on New Year's Eve. But I am disgusted by my community's reaction. Not by those folks who planned to protest in peace, but by those who participated in and encouraged the riots. Did you not watch the news afterward? Did you not see the faces of the people you were hurting? The shop owners, already struggling to make ends meet in this tough economy, now having to replace shattered windows and stolen goods? The poor people who had the misfortune to park their cars in your path of destruction? These are your neighbors! These folks were on your side! They didn't do anything to you, they didn't do anything to that young man who lost his life. Your misplaced aggression didn't speed the city's action. It didn't comfort the family who lost their son, their brother. It just damaged the lives of other good people.
Way to go, Oakland. Well done.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
A slow start to the New Year
For weeks I've been trying to write a post about the holidays, but I'm not getting very far. I'm sorry. I'm still sluggish with party food, I got two of my wisdom teeth pulled (the next two come out next week) and I'm suffering from a mild case of the post-holiday blahs. I've got a sink full of dishes and a load of laundry to do, and my unemployment claim bounced back to me in the mail today because I accidentally inserted it in the envelope address-side down. I blame this on the wisdom that I apparently lost with my teeth. I asked if I could keep them, but my dentist insisted that they were biological waste and had to be be discarded.
However, she did take a picture of my teeth, and then I took a picture of myself with the picture of my teeth. Check it out:
Cool, huh?
Look, I'll get back to you when I'm feeling less stupid.
However, she did take a picture of my teeth, and then I took a picture of myself with the picture of my teeth. Check it out:
Cool, huh?
Look, I'll get back to you when I'm feeling less stupid.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
One wise man
I need to give props to Jonah, who solved the mystery of the ice cube trays.
Here's the thing, he wrote, when they are stacked, the one on top makes great cubes and the one on bottom makes splintery cubes.
"If this works," I told Monte, "I'm going to dedicate a blog post to Jonah."
Thank you, man. May the general public benefit from your wisdom just as Monte and I have done.
Here's the thing, he wrote, when they are stacked, the one on top makes great cubes and the one on bottom makes splintery cubes.
"If this works," I told Monte, "I'm going to dedicate a blog post to Jonah."
Thank you, man. May the general public benefit from your wisdom just as Monte and I have done.
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