Race Lesson Number One

Well, folks, the day has come. My PDG has made the inevitable discovery that he's black. I thought I might have another year before I'd start this complex peeling back of the layers of race with him, but alas it's started coming into focus over the past few weeks and just keeps on popping up.

In some ways it's cute. He thinks it's so weird that people would call him black when he clearly isn't. In fact, he's figured out just which brown crayon in the big box we each are. MDG and I share the same one. His own is one shade lighter and J-Man's the lightest. He has no color words yet to describe our white friends and neighbors. As for the preposterous black/white binary system, he is slowly conceding that we are dark enough to fall into "black" but still thinks his dad is more "blackish whitish." It's all the cute naivete of every kid ever saying "But no one is really black or white, Mommy!"

Tragically pairing his recent realization of race with the news the past month has been devastating. How do you look at your beautiful black son with bright brown eyes and a smile that stretches across his whole face and then hear about more unnecessary killing of black men at the hands of scared police officers? How do you decide when to start mentioning that the policemen we love to point out as "being helpers" or "keeping people safe" might decide that their own presumed lack of safety is someone else's death sentence? Especially if that someone else has skin like ours. Worse if it's darker like their grandfathers' or Big Bro's.

It's been weeks since those terrible two days in a row of Alton Sterling and Philandro Castile and I'm still tearing up about it. It's like the weeks after watching Eyes on the Prize in 8th grade and trying to rid my brain of the horrific images. Beatings. Lynchings. Emmett Till.

Let's step back from those horrors though, because understanding race is gradual and nuanced. First there are going to be the additional questions he'll start to have. We live in a white neighborhood. We go to a mostly white church. We have friends of color, but live a comfortable middle-class life which can make that line of identifying as "black enough" feel out of reach, even when almost every day he will look and feel much blacker than the majority of the people around him. How can we explain how deep blackness penetrates despite how light the surface of his skin might be?

I remember figuring out my blackness. (Ha! I just wrote that, as if I've actually figured out my blackness. Yeah, right.) Better said, I remember starting to figure out my blackness. Some years I was the only black kid at my 180-student private school. Definitely the only black Mormon family in my childhood congregation. I've spent my own life wondering if I'm just the token. How many people name me as their one black friend? How many times have I been in photos like this one, where even the camera doesn't know what to do with me?

I want to tell my sweet boy how being black is not anything to ever feel ashamed of or annoyed by. How he is beautiful, and not because he's light-skinned and stuck with that baggage of being fetishized by all the people who love caramel complexions (because they aren't too dark or sound delicious or whatever?). I want him to find pride in himself and his family without the burden of anger when he begins to understand the circumstances his ancestors endured. I don't want anyone to call him the n-word and have that be a defining moment of his life. I don't want the feeling of otherness to shadow his childhood. I don't want him to wonder if his accomplishments shouldn't be valued because someone quoted anti-affirmative action propaganda and the words "reverse racism" when he succeeded. I don't want him to decide over and over again how hard to defend his right to be smart or articulate or creative or promoted, or not to be athletic or a great dancer or the end-all expert on African American studies.

I want all of that and yet, I don't know what that life could possibly look like because I've spent the past thirty-two years wanting the exact same things for myself.

My greatest solace is that I have years to help him understand this all. He doesn't have to know tomorrow how race is a construct. We can wait until elementary school to flush out the words slavery and segregation. And maybe by the time we delineate between stereotypes, prejudice, and racism the world will be a little kinder, the policies a little more reasonable, and the news stories of inhumanely treated black men a rarity met with honest to goodness justice for all.

NYC Revisited: Day Two

The morning after the wedding we slept in until a whopping 8:30. (Full disclosure I woke up at 5:45 and remembered I could keep sleeping, again at 7 and figured why not see what happened, and then at 8:30 knew that this was the latest my body could possibly understand how to stay asleep).

After a cute breakfast enjoying outdoor seating and people-watching we lazily set up our plan for the day. It revolved around eating, and particularly tracking down a portobello mushroom sandwich with mozzarella and tomato and zucchini that had once made me briefly consider being a vegetarian. We've thought about this appetizer for years and were so excited to see that even though restaurants like Orbit and Creole and One Fish Two Fish are no longer in existence, Ricardo's still was.

J-Man and I soon set off to walk from 80th and Broadway across the park and uptown to 110th and 2nd. We stopped to take some photos, though J-Man reminded me that we didn't need many. After all, we once lived here, and we can come back whenever. Still, I wanted to capture some cuteness.

By the time we'd crossed the park my legs were already laughing at me and my suburb-driving self that doesn't exercise. My hips were like "you know we could've taken a cab right? or a bus or train or uber or horse carriage..." I grabbed a Snapple from a street vendor and told those legs to shove it. I'm still as city fit as I was at 22. In my mind.

Crossing back uptown was a fun adventure. The shift in color and culture of the people on the street came a little farther north than it used to, and people were actually brunching outside above 96th street. But soon enough we were back in our neighborhood. We blended in again, the Spanish chatter started to pick up, and the city transformed into what somehow once was home. Sure enough, as we turned the final corner, there was Ricardo's just as we'd remembered it.

Actually, it was busier than we remembered. And there was a DJ playing poppy hip-hop music. We waited for a table and looked over the brunch menu only to find... what?! No portobello?!?!? How had we not considered once that the menu could have changed in the eight years since we'd last visited? We had to laugh and roll our eyes at ourselves. Of course New York was changing without us. Luckily, the menu was still delicious, and while I'm not a food-picture-taker in general, I did snap this little beauty. Maybe it'll still be around in eight more years?

We walked another six blocks north to see if Mojitos was still around too. That place was our staple once upon a time. Work happy hours, late night tacos, flaming cucarachas. Not only was it going strong, but 116th had some sort of street fair happening. It reminded me of the week after I moved in and the Puerto Rican festival just popped up outside my window. I know when Papa H dropped me off in Harlem the day after my ivy-covered college graduation we were all a little nervous about the neighborhood, but I felt nothing but happy memories standing on the corner.

And J-Man had nothing but good memories standing on his own old stoop too, just a block away from mine.

In case you're wondering, my legs insisted that we cab it back and relax for a few hours next. We watched Spotlight and dozed before starting up friend time. Highly recommended by the way.

Our next food focal point was Tony's Di Napoli. I know there's tons of great Italian food in this city so not everyone will agree, but this one is our favorite. It was always a reliable meal I could take my parents to without exotic cuisine fusions dominating the menu. V joined us - providing stories that could prove to our other college friends that she does still exist and work and isn't on a top secret government assignment - and so did Miss F.  We ordered our favorite zucchini chips and ziti and J-Man's only acceptable chicken marsala. Conversation floated from stealing babies to AMNH exhibits to new job opportunities and of course, the boys we missed so dearly. Also, because V is quite elusive - I took some proof of life.

Back on the west side we finally got to see EK and her husband and thank them for letting us treat their apartment as our personal hotel for the weekend. EK, Miss F and I ate sweets and caught up on life while the boys chatted and discussed the Olympic gymnast's compound fracture.

It was all quite lovely. A perfect little trip. And exhausted we all headed to bed happy.

Oh, and because I like snapchat still, here's my story :)

Home Is Where the Money Is

J-Man and I are thinking about buying a house this year. To best explain where we are on this journey, let's imagine that buying a house is swimming in the deep end of a pool. In that case we are by the steps to the shallow end, still with shorts and a t-shirt over our suits, not having removed jewelry, and crazy enough not to have applied the necessary sunscreen. We're scrolling on our phones while placing just one foot in the water to see if it's the right temperature.

Ok, maybe now that we've started to admit that we're thinking about it, perhaps we have two feet in, but still not past our ankles.

What is it about home ownership that's so much scarier than marriage at age twenty-four, parenthood, and then more parenthood? Is it the money?

Yeah.

It's the money.

First, it's so awkward to talk about. Especially in a bubble like Northern Virginia where houses and souls are priced in the same tax bracket. Like, when a person asks you where you're thinking of moving, you know they're also asking you how much you plan to spend, then judging accordingly. When we say probably not A-town, do they automatically think, "so less than a half mil"? And does that make us the poor folks?

I mean, I'd love to live in A-town. But, in reality, less than a half mil is totally more my style.

If you say closer to the outskirts of the beltway they hear "bargain hunter" and likely have visions of neighbors who will look more like us, even if the languages spoken will vary a good bit. Is that the worst thing? Would it be so bad to not be the only brown family on the block? (That's rhetorical, obviously)

When they ask about commutes and we say we want to be fair to both of us based on where we work now, and where we might seek employment later, what assumptions are they making about our family life? Do they know how J-Man gets up most mornings these days to at least get the boys dressed, if not all the way through teeth brushing, jackets, granola bars and out the door? Do they know how much the boys - and I! - crave the hour with him that he gets between work and their bedtime? Would a great deal on a giant house be worth cutting that down in half? Or worse, extinguishing it completely?

How much house does a person need anyway? We say three bedrooms, but I can't foresee the day when my boys will need to separate. We can do bunk beds. We can keep the toy fairy around with frequent visits to trim our junky overloads.

Don't even get me started on yards. I loved growing up on enough land that I never had to shut my blinds while getting dressed. I also loved that it was never my responsibility to keep up with it. Sure I've mowed the lawn, watered plants, picked plenty of green beans, but I never had to. Now when I see houses with lawns on Zillow I imagine not how cute the curb appeal is, but how much work it must be to keep up. Same with too many square feet. Who's gonna clean all that?

But if we live close to the city and give up the square footage and green grass, aren't we paying so much more for so much less? Which brings us back to money. Always the money.

Houses around here cost so much money.

I guess we'll see if we can go a month without a car repair or other random thousand dollar surprise and maybe a mortgage won't be so scary. Maybe we won't relish calling the landlord when the washer starts trickling water because we openly love not having to pay a cent to get it fixed. Maybe life will toss us an amazing HUD-50%-off-because-you're-a-teacher deal in a neighborhood that's just the right balance of "up and coming" instead of "down and out," and we'll really do this thing.

While we wait and see, we're gonna stay here in the shallow end, practicing our basic math with these precious boys of ours. These precious, expensive, lifelong contracts of boys we couldn't possibly love any more.

And All That Hair

You guys, I hate going to the beauty salon. Hate it. I avoid it for as long as possible, and sometimes longer than should be permissible.

It's ironic, though, because every time I go, I get showered with compliments. Every black woman inside takes a moment to ooh and ahh over my "good hair." And at the risk of sounding obnoxious and ungrateful, I'd like to admit that it's kinda the worst.

Do you know what good hair is? You probably do, and you probably have seen the Chris Rock documentary. If you haven't, check it out sometime. Hair is this powerful concept that you learn very early on will affect the way people look at you. It's a competition, it's a choice, and often it's a complicated burden.

In my case, on a Saturday morning when I've taken the time to wash it, it looks a little like this.

Talk about an undertaking. If you've met me and thought I washed this mess daily, this photo should convince you otherwise. I aim for weekly. Even that was more realistic pre-kids. Now I try for the least frequently that can still remain presentable and hygienic. Sometimes that's my approach to showering too. Just kidding. Kinda. Not really. Anyway.

The other day I got to thinking about my hair and how it's a pain and I should do something about it. I told J-Man I was going to make an appointment. I hadn't had a relaxer since June. (This is something I always lie about at the salon, and pretend it's only been 3 months, or a number less outlandish than my typical 5-7. It's one of few lies I just can't not tell.) You know what happened though? I changed my mind.

I said it out loud, "I'm going to make a hair appointment," and then I quickly decided against it. I didn't want to make the call. I didn't want to try to remember the lady who did it the last time. I didn't want to lie about when I was there last. I really didn't want to go and sit in a chair and be complimented on something for which I can take zero credit beyond inheriting a specific set of genes. I also didn't want to awkwardly assess whether I was black enough to participate in the conversation, laughing at the right jokes, using the right lingo, and appropriately thanking everyone for their interest in these eighteen inches or so I often dream of shaving off.

On a meta level I didn't want to sit and think about how having these thoughts are, for the most part, not at all the fault of the other people in the salon. They're instead a twisted mix of insecurities in my own identity, cemented over three decades of walking the light-skinned tightrope as a black, Mormon, nearly six-foot, ivy league, small town, never-fitting-in girl. Woman.

Going to a hair salon brings out every fear I have about the construct of beauty and my inability to accept that I both want to be, and yet fear the process of becoming, beautiful. I tell myself I want inner beauty. I don't need people to look at me and use words like "stunning" or "gorgeous." But don't I? Doesn't everyone? At least, a little bit? Doesn't it feel amazing to look in the mirror when the stylist is finished and see a set of locks you want to flip around as your love takes you to a fancy dinner or spins you around a dance floor? Can't you laugh like nothing matters because you feel the eyes of the room deciding you're worthy of their gaze?

Most days I look in the mirror and I shrug at what I see. There's a girl. She's getting wrinkles and her eyes carry bags of dark exhaustion. Her smile's ok. Her nose will do. When she stands tall, she looks like she's doing all right. And that hair, it'll work. Just braid it to the side like Elsa. Or twist it into a bun and slap a scrunchie around it. Pull it tight and ignore everything it makes you think about who you are. Spend your time on sleep, or your kids, or packing a lunch so you're not starving by seventh period.

But sometimes, after my darling husband has given my confidence the boost I need to make the call, schedule the appointment, let Miss S keep the boys the first day of Thanksgiving break, and step foot into the salon, I come out looking like this.

Maybe not stunning. Maybe not gorgeous. But I survived. I felt shamefully happy with the outcome. I changed my profile picture. I decided it was all right to indulge in a little vanity. I took family photos for our Christmas card and I secretly felt happy to have my hair. Typing this now it feels so silly to say. I'd be happy with any hair, right? It shouldn't be so weighted a statement to make. I should love it however it looks. I should love myself however I look.

One day I might.

For now, the question remains - how long until I have to wash it again? Surely not before J-Man's work party tonight!

Addy and Me

I've read some articles recently about toys and feminism and dolls and the general downward spiral of our society since we children of the '80s once played and laughed in happy unison.  Specifically, American Girl Dolls have come up a few different times.

Not so shocking fact: I had an Addy doll.

Possibly shocking fact: my Addy doll opened my eyes to race in a way no other toy ever rivaled.

First, I should mention, most of my friends growing up were white.  (Well, they are still white.  We just are no longer growing up.  It just sounded like they were only white back then...) As such, at their houses, we played with white toys.  White Barbies, white dolls, white Little People etc.  I don't actually remember anyone else owning black toys.  And let's face it, in the '89-'95 era black and white were really the only options. They probably still are in most cases.

I, on the other hand, as a little girl had a variety.  We had two Ken dolls - one white with smooth plastic hair, and one black with a bumpy plastic afro.  Both, of course, were dreamy and deserving of my mini-skirt wearing brood of Barbies.  The girls were also about half black and half white.  The black girls would date Black Ken and the white girls would date White Ken.  But I never labeled it as such.  I probably didn't even think of it.  On some subconscious level I must've learned that's the way it works. (I've obviously since adjusted that view)

One year, however, the Pleasant Company catalogs that arrived quarterly at my home, addressed to me, with beautiful faces of sweet American girls and cute little babies, got the best of me.  I just HAD to have one.  I asked Santa.  I mentioned it often.  I talked about it with my friends at my private school where all the girls already had one (or two) or were asking for one for Christmas as well.

Santa gave in.

He brought me Addy.  After all, that's who I had asked for.  Of the five (?) dolls you could order then - a far cry from the any eye/hair/skin tone combo now available - she was the only non-white option.  I liked that she would look like me.  I wanted to dress like her.  I wanted to read her stories.

I loved my Addy doll.  She was the classiest of my doll collection by far, though that didn't stop me from having her date my Urkel doll whose glasses had conveniently broken and left him looking more like his alter ego Stefan. I got her tea set and her Christmas dress and she was popular and beautiful and I wanted to be her.  (Yeah, I still had years of therapy and self-esteem issues yet to work through back then).

It was the book that struck a cord though.  Every doll had the same series of books.  Meet So-and-So.  So-and-So learns a lesson.  Changes for So-and-So.  Etc.

In the first book, Addy is a slave.  Not a house slave either, though that wouldn't make a difference.  It's just one of those ways of softening an ugly American history. Addy Walker lives on a plantation before escaping North where she can learn and thrive and have adventures in the 1860s.

This fact, and particularly a scene in which she has to eat worms missed on a tobacco plant, made me ill.  I read it over and over again.  It didn't matter to me that it was fiction.  It was fiction meant to represent very real moments and people in the past, so I couldn't stop from connecting emotionally.  I cried for Addy Walker.  I cried for every black girl and black boy born into a life of slavery and captivity.  I cried for my own great-great-great grandparents  that had endured the same indecency.  I cried because I knew so little time separated my own life story from having similar heartaches.

Reading this little book was not my first time contemplating race.  I knew my parents had both been in high school when their towns finally gave in to integration mandates (10 years past Brown v Board). I'd been called the n-word when a kid was mad at me once. Still, it hadn't fully clicked before.  Now I was holding a toy doll, this mass of plastic and stuffing and unnecessarily coarse hair, and I saw a past I had narrowly escaped but that to which I would always be tied.

It's kinda weird, right, that I attached all this to just a doll?  I guess I was a little strange as a kid.  And if you know me, you probably know that I did play with my toys for far longer than is "cool" or "normal" and that my toys sort of took on identities of their own.

But weird kid or not, Addy's story made me reflect on my own identity.

I wonder what dolls/toys are doing that these days.  I hope inside all that pink and purple packaging, something is still stretching young girls' minds.  Tempting them to think deeper.  Broadening the ideas of what it means to be strong.

I also hope I have the right words to talk about race and identity with my boys when they're old enough to feel these emotions too, regardless of what random moment triggers them.