More Than one Box--Part One

Yesterday I had the opportunity to stand in front of a group of people, mostly strangers, and talk about my experiences as a person of color.  Weird, I know.  I tend to enjoy public speaking, especially when it is in front of students talking about stuff that I know inside and out.  But I always get hot when I'm speaking in front of a group and end up sweaty by the end, regardless of the topic.  I always hope that there is enough distance between us that they can't see the beads of sweat on my forehead or smell my pits.  Yesterday was no different.  But it's not just when I talk in front of crowds that I get nervous and sweaty, it's any time I'm put outside of my element.  First dates were a son of a bitch for me, I'd always have to plan an early break so I could retreat to the bathroom and get decent.  I guess you'd call it anxiety.  It's a trait I surely inherrited from my mom.  My white mom.

Unlike the experiences of other mixed heritage people I have met, most mixed heritage folks I have met, no one ever asks me what I am.  It is remarkably obvious that I am black.  I'm probably the most obviously black of all of my mixed siblings.  I like not having to explain what I am.  Explaining who I am is often a different situation.

So back to standing in front of a room full of folks, talking about my experiences.  There are some students, but there are probably more colleagues, most of them directors, deans and other folks from the upper eschelon of leadership at Clark, save for some instructors sprinkled throughout.  And they're just looking at me, listening.  And me, being me, meaning I am totally winging this shit (insert picture of me doing the chicken dance here), talk briefly about growing up black, but mixed, in a white city in white schools where people who know me and sometimes people who love me want me to clarify who I am and "choose."  I talked a little bit about coming of age and coming to terms with who I am and where I belong.  It happened fast, around the time I was 19, when I realized that while I may not fit into the norm of black stereotypical behavior, there would be no hiding from the fact that I am black.  Period.  With a mostly white family.  And now with a white husband.  And one day with predominately white children.  Hmm.

I talked about the safety of my family, who for the most part got who I was in terms of my behavior, and who loved me for who I was and for who I am.  But I wish that I would have said more.  Because the reality is that making black babies and loving the black children in your family, as good as the intentions are, doesn't exempt you from being racist.  Not necessarily the "bad" kind of racist that puts on a hood and burn crosses on lawns, but the kind of racist that enforces stereotypes and helps children believes the narratives about brown people not being as good as white people.  It was never "intentional" but how does that saying go?  You're intentions don't change my outcome?  Something like that....Whatever.

Case in point, I'm a little girl watching the re-make of Pollyanna with Keisha Knight-Pulliam, AKA Rudy Huxtable.  At some point in the movie some old white lady called little Pollyanna a pickaninny.  I   turned around and faced my grandma, who loved me as much as she loved her own kids and probably loved me more than anyone ever has or will.  I asked her what the word meant.  She didn't tell me what it meant, instead she said, "You're our little pickaninny."  It was fucked up.  I knew then that it was fucked up, even though I didn't know what it meant.  I knew it had something to do with my brown skin.  But you know what?  I loved her all the same.  Especially when she let me be still on her lap and snuggle in close.  I remember that time because it hurt.  I didn't know why it hurt, but it did, and it still does.  I'd take a million of those experiences over again to have another chance to snuggle into my grandmas lap, but that's a different story.

But grandmas are kind of just like that, right?  Everyone's grandparents say fucked up shit that is racist or homophobic, and they get away with it because they came up in a different time.  And in general old people get to say crazy shit and not get called on it, simply because they are old, whether it is oppressive or not.  But it wasn't just my grandma who said totally insensitive and racist things, it was other folks too.  And not just white folks, black folks too.

One of my steadfast memories of my black Dad growing up was him calling white men Opie and black men Buckwheat.  True story.

And what to do with the fact that Dad only had relationships with white women and Mom only had relationships with black men.  Where did that put me?  I'll tell you where. In a place where there were no black women in my life who I had a strong connection to or who really served as a solid role model for me, much less a mentor.  A woman who could talk to me about her experiences growing up and give me insight about how racism has effected her life and teach me lessons, with words or examples, on how to navigate in this world.  It wasn't until I was nearly twenty that I realized that this might be important, but by then I felt like too much of an outsider to seek it out.  And where do you start?  Instead I take what I can get where I can get it.  And I share my stories with others so that maybe a young person who struggled with the same rediculous issues I have will recognize that maybe I can be a resource for her.

But honestly, how can I talk about my story without talking about class?  But how do I talk about my class background in front of strangers and folks who have power over me?  Talking about class in generalized terms is one thing, sharing my story is another.  So I left that out.  And I regret it.  If I had it to do all over again I would have talked about growing up poor.  No I mean it, pooooooor.  Like lights shut off poor, no food in the fridge poor, welfare and foodstamps poor.  Clothes that don't fit and are rediculously ugly poor.  Free lunch poor, government cheese poor.  Mattresses on the floor no sheets poor.  Dad's driving a new mustang while Mom's on the bus poor.  Living with your aunts because Mom can't take care of you poor.  Living with Dad's estranged wife because Mom can't take care of you poor.  Living with a stranger because Mom can't take care of you poor.  New shoes once a year poor.  The kind of poor that makes the rise to the rungs of lower middle class A FUCKING DREAM COME TRUE!!!

My brand of poor was the kind that people aren't shocked to see a black kid wear.  Yet my mom was white.  Growing up I wanted to shout it from the roof tops that I wasn't poor because I was black, that my dad, was in fact, doing just fine.  That his other kids had clothes that were new with portraits hung on the walls displaying their picture perfect looks with  hair that was neatly arranged and cute smiles.  But then there was me, clothes packed into a plastic or paper sack for weekend stays.  A reprieve from poor twice a month, where I was still the outsider.

I can't tell my story about being a person of color without talking about having tits and pubes before I was 9 and  my period before I was 10.  I can't tell my story about being a person of color without talking about having an absentee father.  I can't tell my story about being a person of color without talking about my families history of alcohol and drug abuse.  I can't tell my story about being a person of color without talking about working since I was 15, or about my first boyfriend who was a heroin addict who told me I was the whitest black person he had ever met, or the best friend who told me that she didn't care about black peoples experiences because in general black women were bitches.

But what I did share was this: if you expect belong, it starts inside.

I realized after a lot of crying and some spectacular time spent with loving black folks who didn't expect me to be anything but what I was, that I didn't have to choose.  I realized that who I am cannot be defined as a percentage, I am wholly human.  My black cells and my white cells aren't at battle with each other, they aren't separate.  They don't argue over politics or debate about affirmative action.  I get to claim it all, equally and without explanation.

When I was wee, like three years old wee, I used to look down at my naked torso to the linea negra that seemed fraction my body and think that it was the dividing line.  I'd look at it and wonder which side was black and which side was white.  I learned to describe myself in terms of a sandwich, peanut butter and mayonaise. It was important to me, even then, to be able to put into perspective what I was and where I belonged.  I needed to have an answer for the imaginary questions I received about why a black kid would be with a group of white people.  I always felt like an imposter.  And as I got older those questions became real, with inquiries about being adopted and other completely ignorant bullshit that people don't have the right to heap on young folks.

So....What's the point?  Kiddos are precious fucking cargo.  Some of us are lucky enough to get them, even when they aren't asked for, some of us aren't.  They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, hues, temperaments, and with a variety of needs.  And whether you asked for that  kid or not, you're stuck with them and they are stuck with your bullshit, so pull it together.  Choose to think outside of the here and now.  I get it, adult life is stressful, there are bills to pay and dinners to cook, but it's never too early to start talking to your kids about identity and what that means, regardless of the color of their skin.  Because one day that kid may come across an LMA (Little Monica Anne).  Her pants will be too short, her hair will be a frizzy hot mess and she will have a vocabulary like no other seven year old anyone has ever met.  Your kid will either be thoughtful enough to embrace her as she is, or they won't; who knows?  Or maybe your kid brings home an LMA to play after school or to hang for a sleep over, those conversations about identity may help you be the kind of safe adult who can treat her like she's normal and never expect her to explain who she is to you.  Maybe those conversations will prepare you to talk to her about her reality and give her the chance to tell you about her peanut butter sandwich theory, or better yet the story about the time her aunt detangled her hair with a fork.  The point is that everyone's experiences, people of color or not, are shaped by the world around them. So get off your "Ugh, everything has to be so PC" bullshit and be kind.  Be thoughtful of other peoples experiences and ask questions before you make statements.  You never know when that one sentence to come out of your mouth will be the one that sticks with someone for the rest of their life, so make it count.

REALITY BITES

Dear Evelyn Lozado-Ochocinco-Johnson,

Fuck you.  

Sincerely,

Monica Wilson

Oh wait, let me back up.

Sorry about the cut to your forehead.  I hope it heals up nicely, but I imagine your plastic surgeon will see to that.  No one deserves to be hit, or kicked, or head butted. 

But do me a favor?  Stop trying to be the face of domestic violence.  The public already has a hard enough time believing survivors stories.  You aren't helping.

I know it's been less than 48 hours since it all happened, and I know how you hate to miss an opportunity to whore it up in the media.  But really, take some time off camera to reflect.  About what? Don't worry, I have some suggestions.

Reflection topic #1: What are you going to do with your life now that you've have ended another relationship with an athlete?  Maybe choose something other than reality television.  It makes you look like a bitch.  Oh wait, that's not the editing.

Reflection topic #2: Get real about who you are.  You are famous for fucking athletes.  You don't bring positivity to the world on any level.  You are catty and mean to people, and violent yourself.  I'd never blame a person who is on the receiving end of intimate partner violence.  Violence just isn't the answer. But when you regularly use violence to prove your point, as you do (throwing bottles and punches when you don't like people or their opinions), you can't expect people to have too much sympathy when the tables turn.  Take inventory of the choices you've made that have led to the situation you are in.  

Reflection topic #3: Instead of playing the victim role, recognize your role as an abuser.  Instead of trying to gather sympathy, determine how you can address the issue of interpersonal violence and then work to end the cycle that you perpetuate when you put hands on your best friend.  

Now it's time to do:

• Treat people how you like to be treated.  Don't like to be hit?  QUIT HITTING OTHER PEOPLE!
• Act like you're family might be embarrassed when they see you wildin' out on TV.  QUIT HITTING OTHER PEOPLE!  And maybe you could stop the screaming, belittling, and throwing of champagne bottles while you're at it.  And don't jump on tables anymore.  
• Behave like you have a teenage daughter who is now starting to date athletes and rappers, like her mama showed her.  Show her the options that are available to her with an education and some self-respect.  Maybe you could QUIT HITTING OTHER PEOPLE?  But maybe also you could find a way to make a living that isn't dependent on whom you are sleeping with.  If for no other reason, your daughter is watching you.  And not just on TV, she can see you in real life too.

But really, until you act right, even a little bit, I'm sticking with fuck you.  If not for me having to be bombarded with your crocodile tears and woe is me disposition over recent events, then for the abusive ways you have treated women you care about.  Violence is violence, don't hurt the people you love.  Or the people you loved at one time.  You might think you are a bad bitch, and that you are about this life.  And if that's still true, after everything you've been through, then seriously: F.....

It's not even worth it.  Just go away already.

Delete Delete Delete

Today I did something I haven't done before.  I've been thinking about it for a few days, because I wanted to make sure that I was doing the right thing.  I've been talking about it for a few days, to anyone who would listen.  Delete a Facebook "friend" or hide them.  I didn't want to hurt her feelings but I also wanted to make a point.  You see my dilemma.

A month or so back, this "friend" who I knew from middle school, went on a FB rant about fat people wearing inappropriate clothes for their body type.  Things like tank tops and shorts.  She qualified it as okay since she is also a "big girl."  Within 24 hours she posted a picture she had taken of a woman in a tank top at Walmart, demonstrating her disgust.  The backlash was immediate and she removed the picture, but  made excuses in a separate post about how she was just making a point.

Three days ago, she did it again.  While in the safety and likely A/C of her mini-van, she snapped a picture of a woman in a skirt and tank top riding a razor scooter.  Not only, according to my ex-facebook friend, dressed inappropriately for the 85 degree day, she had no business riding a scooter.  She would never!  My response?  Good thing you don't have to.

This kind of behavior, cyber bullying by some standards, pisses me the fuck off.  Why you ask?  Let me break it down for you.

1. Fat people look fat no matter what they are wearing, no matter our mode of transport, no matter where we are shopping.  I know this, I deal with it every day.  I've gotten over not wearing red because it makes me look fat, so does black, blue and brown.  Nothing hides it, it's there!  People are going to judge me regardless of what I wear.  I judge other people all the time.  Usually not for their size, but on their merit.  And not merit like how much they've accomplished in their lives, but  how much of an asshole they are on any given day.  

2. Snapping pictures of people you don't know, in secret mind you, without their consent for your friends to also laugh at, is cowardice.  A real bully would go to someones face and poke fun of them for being fat.  Buck up lady, if you are going to do it, do it fucking right.  That way, when you bark up the wrong tree you can get checked for it.  And hopefully in front of your three kids, which you can't blame your weight for, since you were fat in middle school too.  Just like me.  Bitch.

3.Do unto others, right?  You'd know, you are the one who is a god fearing christian.  Talking shit on the internet isn't very Christ like.  Just saying.

4. I get it, you don't like being fat.  Neither do I.  Some days I am more proactive about my health and size than others.  It's my battle, I share it when it feels safe to.  You clearly need support around this issue, and I wish that you had an appropriate platform for this.  Putting strangers down on Facebook, for your 200 friends to see, is not that platform.  You may have trouble seeing beauty when you look in the mirror, but it is likely not for the double chin fractioned neck.  It's because you are acting like an asshole and that isn't a good look.

5.  You don't know her, and you sure as shit don't know her situation.  She may have left an abusive situation with the clothes on her back and was lucky to have a friend loan her a scooter to get to and from the bus stop, considering that there isn't close by-mass transit in your neighborhood.  Or maybe she just likes to ride a scooter.  Maybe she's lost 50 pounds riding around on that scooter, and feels great about her body.  But maybe, just maybe, it's none of your fucking business and you should shut the fuck up.

6.  I fancy myself a role model.  I work for two educational institutions and do my best every day to build relationships with students based on trust and mutual respect.  Bullying, cyber or not, is an issue that has devastating long term effects on people, young and old.  When I was in middle school and made fun of every day for being fat and having the wrong clothes and being poor and having the wrong hair and glasses, I hated my life.  We didn't call it bullying, but we all knew it was wrong.  It simmered down around teachers so no one got in trouble, but the pain was heavy in my mind.  It was another secret I had to keep and more shame to add to the heap.  I grew up, I got over it (so to speak), but as an advocate for young people I will not laugh it off or ignore it.  Especially not when it is an adult doing it.  Especially not when it takes only one of your friends to repost the picture, and one of theirs, for this poor woman to see how she has been taunted (without her knowledge or consent) on Facebook.  I can't be a party to that, in any sense.  For me to be a safe person for young people, and adult students as well, to discuss their issues with, I have to set the example.  And you, lady with three children, should consider doing the same.

So there you have it folks.  Me, another rant about being pissed off and not liking people.  I may be as much of an asshole as my former Facebook friend, but at least I've got good reasons.

Don't Shoot

A couple of weeks ago, when it was raining like it does in Portland, my supervisor told me to drive carefully, I told her that I always do.  We, along with another co-worker, got into a conversation about how we drive, and I was the only one out of the three of us that is super cautious about obeying all of the laws of the road, even the speed limit.  Sure, I'll go five miles over on parts of the freeway that I am super familiar with, but you won't likely catch me going ten or miles over the posted limit.  They thought it was funny, but they didn't laugh when I said, "I'm terrified of getting pulled over.  Too many unarmed black folks get shot by the police in Portland."  The rosiness of their cheeks drained and for the first time since we've worked together, they were at a loss for words.  I went on to explain that getting killed is bad, but what really bothers me is that they can say anything about me once I am gone, to justify their actions, and I will never be able to defend myself.  While they assured me that if such a tragedy were to occur, they'd speak on behalf of my character, clearly they had missed the point.


When someone is killed in "self defense," it clearly implies that they were engaging in an activity that put another persons life in peril.  If it comes out that they weren't doing any such thing, but instead they were, I don't know, walking home with iced tea and skittles or reaching for identification, a rationalization for the death comes next.  Of all of the situations that I remember in the recent years (Byron Hammick, Kendra James, James Perez, Aaron Campbell), the rationalization hinged on people not living right, maybe being drug addicts or dealers or not doing as they are told.  It doesn't matter what family and friends say about the deceased, it all sounds like excuses.  Legality is brushed aside on some level, and the implication is that the world is a better place without this particular menace.


I think about this a lot, every time I think about Trayvon Martin.  And the worst thing that I have done is read comments left by completely anonymous posters on "news" sites, who without knowing this kid, say some really reckless and hurtful things in hopes of justifying his death.  I don't know him, and I never will, and I doubt he was perfect.  From what I have read he may have gotten into some trouble at school and been suspended, which (last time I checked) isn't an offense that is punishable by death.  I was suspended from school once, expelled actually, for something completely inexcusable.  Luckily the expulsion was the punishment.  Again, had someone killed me, it may have turned into the rationale for why my death was justified.  Kids do stupid things, and so do adults.  It doesn't give police or vigilante community members the right to kill people in cold blood.


I can't count the awful and ridiculous things that I have done in my life, and luckily I don't have to.  I have had the opportunity to move forward and learn from mistakes.  Some mistakes I have made repeatedly, others I have not.  Last time I checked, that is what life is comprised of.  My life has been affected by the mistakes of others as well, and I know that if I were to be shot and killed "in self defense," a laundry list would be strung out on fox news exampling how this black woman's parents have battled with subsance abuse, that I have a deadbeat dad, that I have student loan debt, that I have bounced a few checks in my lifetime and that I have had a couple of traffic violations.  I don't doubt that there would be a number of people, both former friends and plenty of family members, who would love to chime in about what a bitch I am.  And you know what? Its all true!  I have a filthy mouth and I eat too much, I roll my eyes and make judgements about people I don't know.  I listen to rap music that even offends my taste, and I love music videos that feature women who wear very little clothes.  I say words that would make my grandma slap my mouth, and I talk a big game about punching people. I went through a phase as a tween where I would steal anything I could get my hands on, and I barely graduated high school because I always skipped class.  I am both lovable and loathsome in one fell swoop, but I would never intentionally physically hurt someone.  But still I am afraid of the off chance that me simply being me will get me shot or killed, because of the assumptions that a person can make about me.


So in the event that I can' speak for myself because I am lying down in a pool of my own blood, I have a pre-emptive statement:  I didn't fucking do it.  If you find crack in the car, I promise it wasn't there before I died.  If there's a gun on my person, it wasn't there while I was breathing.  A store was robbed a mile away, I can't run that fast (as evidenced by my performance at the Shamrock Run).  Lots of cash in my purse?  Probably rent money.  I know to keep my hands where they can be seen in the even of being pulled over.  I never walk further than Walgreens for an iced tea (seriously, I'm hooked) in the dark. My blood alcohol level and toxicology reports won't be a surprise (hence the crack not being mine).  I don't have any warrants, and you aren't going to find any hits on my DNA.  So regardless of what blogs and Fox News could say say or imply. I'm not another statistic and there isn't  another person around who gets to decide whether the world is a better place without me.

Before You Ask.....

Maybe it's the expression on my face.  Maybe it is the tone of my voice.  Maybe it's my body language.  Whatever it is, there may be a time that you wonder if I don't like someone.  Maybe that someone is a new person you are dating, or your adult child, or a friend from out of town.  Before you ask me why, think about a few things.....

1. Is this person known for being abusive?  Physical, sexual, emotional, whatever. Abuse is abuse as far as I'm concerned, and if they haven't worked that shit out, and seriously made amends for their actions with the people they have harmed,  I DON'T LIKE THEM. Period.

2. Is this person regularly using hate speech?  I don't care if I don't belong to the group they are targeting, it hurts my feelings.  I don't care if "they don't mean it like that."  There is only one way to mean it and it is hurtful.  If they are racist/sexist/heterosexist/xenophobic/ageist,  I DON'T LIKE THEM.  Period

3. Is this person taking someone for a free ride? Perpetually?  Doesn't work?  Able bodied with a sound (enough) mind but can't get a job, go to school or pick up a broom around the house?  Yet some how always manages to have money in their pocket, which means you have less in yours?  And you're struggling to make ends meet?  Or they manage to "work the system" with under the counter (tax free) jobs and un-necessary government assistance (back to the able body/mind statement)?  If they can't pull their own load, I PROBABLY DON'T LIKE THEM.  Period.

4. Is this person a deadbeat mom or dad?  Do they have kids that they don't have relationships with?  Any kind of relationship?  Birthday cards sent once a year?  Christmas card sent once a year?  Picture in their wallet? Do they let drama stand in the way of playing an active role in the life of a person that likely needs them?  Do they sidestep financial responsibility for their kids, and always have a negative word about their ex?  Are they an in-house deadbeat?  If a person can ignore the most significant role they should ever play in someones life, especially that of a child or teenager, I DON'T LIKE THEM.  Period.


5. Is this person just lacking in kindness and respect?  Hurtful, insensitive, rude, condescending, arrogant, or phony?  Do they talk over everyone and always know the answer?  Is their answer always right, even when it's not?  Are they completely unwilling to consider looking at a situation from a perspective other than their own?  Are they childish and insistent on their own way, whiney at times?  If a grown up can't act like a grown up, especially around strangers, I PROBABLY DONT LIKE THEM.  Period.


But wait, there's a catch!  I get it that it isn't always cut and dry.  I may not know these things about a person, and sometimes I can be a jerk and rush to judgement.  But more often than not, by the time I meet someone that is meaningful to your life, I know some of these things.  How?  Probably because you told me.  Or maybe I even liked them at one point, and over years of experiencing their behavior, my opinion has changed. It is also, completely possible, that I am just being an ass.  


I get it that it is judgmental, and I am fine with that.  The truth is, I value my judgements, they are all that I have to keep me safe.  I make judgements about what I will wear in a day to keep me warm or cool enough.  Judgements about the products I buy and the effects they have on my body and the environment, as well as my pocket-book.  I've made it to thirty years because I've held fast to the nagging in my belly that tells me when it isn't safe, when it's not a good idea, that he's no good, when to go and when to stop.  The nag has resulted in some lost friendships, but where it counts it has strengthened my most important bonds.


So if you think I'm being "standoffish," or that I've rolled my eyes one too many times, there is a good chance that I don't like either you, or the person you've brought along.  But before you ask me, save us both some embarrassment and think about it.  In this situation it is okay to assume, if it turns out that I'm the ass, I'm okay with that!