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.
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