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Staying Connected When Our Children Are Dying

Ferguson MarchLast weekend as I left the house for church, I slowed down because the boys at the end of our street were playing basketball.

They stood back as I passed, and a racial epithet – one my father used frequently through my childhood – leapt into my mind. Annoyed at myself, I pushed it away, thinking as I did so that the “boys” were actually young men. Thinking of them as young black men made me nervous, a white woman paranoia that I’ve learned to name as racism. Pushing THAT thought away, I thought of Ferguson, and felt a wash of shame and despair.

Then there was traffic, and my worry about being prepped to teach Sunday school,  and my thoughts moved on, until Monday, when I walked into the ladies bathroom at work and heard an unexpected noise. It took me a long minute before I realized that the sound was a breast pump: a female co-worker in the wide stall at the end of the row was pumping her milk.

I’d been holding it together in my new job until that moment. It’s been three weeks since I left my daughter at home to work full-time. Her absence is a deep ache in my body. The first week I felt so disconnected, like I was in a dream living someone else’s life. That has faded, but I still have a strict two minute limit on tears.

But in that moment, it hit me hard: the ache for my daughter, and immediately on the heels of that, I thought of Mike Brown, of Mike’s mother, and all the people who love him. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod:

They are killing our children. Our children.

Heartbroken, I cried in the bathroom, letting the whirr and hiss of the pump cover my sobs. Eventually I stopped, splashed water on my face, readjusted my armor and went back to my desk. I need to keep this job.

On the drive home that night, I let myself think about them again: first my daughter, and then Mike. I remembered the bit I know of history, and it felt like this. I know where my people are, in that picture, I know whose side my ancestors are on. And I thought:

We are killing our children.

And in that moment, I was suddenly so F—ING FURIOUS I could barely drive.
Heart is a Muscle - from blacklivesmatter.tumblr
Enough.
Enough of your voice in my head, Father.
Enough of pushing away kneejerk paranoia and shame about feeling it.
Enough of there being nothing I can do.

Haven’t I learned, at least a little, that the way to meet shame is with courage and responsibility?

WE are killing our children and we had better well f—ing stop. RIGHT NOW.

What is my church doing about this? Who do I know in Missouri, do I know anyone, who could I call?

I let the fury carry me into plans and actions, and I wondered:

Why did it take me SO LONG? A week of reading the news on facebook, late at night after my daughter was finally tucked into bed, but none of it really penetrating, none of it connecting with my heart, moving me into action.

Maybe I’m preoccupied…new job, big transition. Maybe I’m desensitized…there have been so many deaths, not only from police violence but the war on Gaza’s children, the refugee children at our borders. And maybe it is uncomfortable and easier for me to act as if it isn’t my children, our children, who are being murdered.

This post is to help me remember to stay connected, to stay present, to not let change and privilege lull me into isolation.

How are you responding to the systemic racism of police violence? What helps you stay connected?


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Checking the ‘Race’ Boxes

Applying for a social security card for my daughter, my hand stops over the voluntary ethnicity section. I know that these categories have changed over time (the boxes used to say ‘free’ or ‘slave’ or ‘mulatto’) and reflect a global system of white supremacy.

While I know this history, when I fill out forms for myself I rarely think twice. But this time I am answering for my daughter. I check the boxes for “White” and “Hispanic” and then I stop.

What is the government going to do with this information? Will my daughter be targeted if I make her visible to the government in this way? I think of “Operation Wetback” in the 1950s, of the ICE raids in Portland in 2007, of the families who are still, this moment, in danger.

Then I think about affirmative action programs and college scholarships. I think about my hometown near LA and its increasing Latino majority.  Isn’t it important to be visible?

I’m acutely aware that all of my angst is about the box labeled “Hispanic.” I don’t feel any uncertainty about checking the box labeled “White.” I’ve never had to think about these boxes before and how they relate to me or my family. There was never a box for “German-American” or “Rural Poor White Class.”

If I refuse to give this information, does that mean that I am ashamed of my daughter’s heritage? Paranoid about racism? Trying to opt out?

As I reflect, I begin to wonder if I am using my daughter to examine my own complicity and place in the system. Is that fair to her or helpful to me? I don’t know.

After much internal debate, I print out a new application. This time, I don’t check any boxes. I leave them all blank.

What do you do when you fill out these types of forms? I’d love to hear your thoughts or insights.


Who Determines Racial Identity?

I’ve been away from this blog for  months now, busy being a new mama. Now that my daughter Elena is nearly three months old, we’re settling into a routine that includes nap time aka mama-blog-time. I’m excited about a new campaign by Showing Up for Racial Justice, a non-profit that organizes white people to be visible for racial justice. I downloaded their education toolkit and got ready to snap a pic of me and Ellie being visible for racial justice.

Then I remembered that my daughter isn’t (all) white. She has pale skin, which is to say, she looks white.  My daughter’s racial and ethnic heritage includes a grandfather who is Latino and a great-grandfather who immigrated to this country (undocumented, thank you very much) from Mexico.

When my wife and I adopted Elena, we wanted to honor her birth family and their ongoing presence in Ellie’s life. So Elena has a Spanish surname as part of her name, and this has prompted people — brown people, white people — to ask us: so IS she Mexican?

Recently a friend shared with me the perception by people outside the US that our American obsession with percentages in racial identity (i.e. “half-white”, “25% Black”, etc.) is shocking. “We only talk about racial percentages with animals,” the friend said.

Questions from friends about Elena’s race are hard for me to answer. I can talk about Elena’s great-grandfather, because that is a story which involves revolution and border-crossing and courage. Being an immigrant’s daughter myself, that story rings in my bones. But I don’t know how to answer the question of who Elena is racially.

I know the impetus behind my friends’ questions is to determine how to relate to my daughter. She looks white, and both of her moms are white, so I sense that other people will feel more comfortable if we just live as a white family.

But while we carry pale skin privilege, we aren’t a white family, because Elena isn’t (all) white. Having a close friend who was raised by her adopted parents to be white (just chuck that “other” heritage out the window because we don’t know what to do with it), I flat-out refuse to minimize, obscure or “%” Elena’s indigenous Mexican heritage.

I’m suddenly aware that generations of parents do this for/to their children: they shape how their children see themselves racially. I model for others how to see my daughter’s race, even as the public assumes something based on our skin. Being able to choose what to claim in racial identity is itself part of white privilege.

What if my daughter regrets our insistence on her indigenous Mexican heritage as she gets older? How MUCH heritage do you need to have before you become a person of color, anyway? The “One Drop” rule comes painfully to mind. Is it just skin color? What about language and community? Am I Elizabeth-Warren-ing my daughter?  I don’t know. This is tricky and I’m a sheltered, privileged novice.

I will raise Elena with awareness of her pale skin privilege, because that’s what I do know how to offer. But I also want to give her role models for navigating a racial identity that is complex and multi-layered. So I need you, my allies. I need your stories of passing-for-white, I need your thoughts on how we talk about racial identity, on how we respond to assumptions based on skin color.


Changing the Story

I’m a coward. Tonight’s class was full of cultural appropriation, racism and silencing. I said something, but not enough, and I drove home thinking of all the things I could have said if I’d been clever, clear-witted and focused instead of angry, hurt and sad.

Theatre of the Oppressed gives the audience a chance to re-write a real-life example of oppression and do it over. The rules are that you don’t get to change the person being an oppressor (because that would be easy) and you don’t get to change the person being oppressed. All you can change are the bystanders, the allies. That would be me, the silent white girl who says too little too late, there at the edge of the room by the door.

So here is the real-life scene as it occurred just hours ago, along with the interventions I thought of in the car on my ride home. (STOP! indicates an intervention I could have said.)

Setting: Classroom at Marylhurst University. 11 White students, 1 Native American student, 1 White teacher.

Terry, white lady from Sisters Oregon: So for my presentation I am going to play a fun game that will show us how stories in oral tradition get changed over time. First we have to send two of our tribe members outside the room. Then I’m going to be the elder and tell you our creation story. This story comes from the Quinault Indians.

STOP! Wait, so we’re pretending to be Quinault Indians, is that right? Wow, that’s offensive. I’m not going to “play Indian.” I’ll wait outside. Let me know when you’re done.

Terry: (reads her ‘creation story’ from a sheet of paper) Okay, so now that I’ve told you our creation story, let’s call the tribe members back. Now one person tell the tribe member our story from memory. You get the idea — it’s a lot like Telephone.

STOP! Wait, Telephone…you mean the child’s game where you whisper a nonsensical sentence down a line of people to see how messed-up and incomprehensible it becomes by the end? I don’t want to disrespect another culture’s sacred story by treating it as a game. Does anyone else think this is disrespectful?

Terry: Wow, that’s funny. Isn’t it funny? [many people were in fact laughing] Grey Eagle. Ha! It was Great Eagle. And the daughter didn’t have a name, you added that. See how the story changed? This is just like how Christianity was spread in Rome by the early Christians. A merchant told his wife who told her neighbors who told…

Me: Oral tradition isn’t telephone. It is a sacred practice in which stories are held by the storykeepers and passed on to those who must learn them precisely and carry them. I don’t think you can compare a sacred story from a Native American culture with word-of-mouth gossip.

Terry: Well I had to use a Native story. I couldn’t use a story from the Bible because you would all know it.

STOP! I don’t think everyone knows bible stories. Not everyone in this class is Jewish or Christian. An indigenous creation story is just as sacred as the biblical texts and should be treated with respect. Could you have made up a story?

(end scene)

Writing this, I realize that I’m changing the story to make myself feel better. Re-writing it now doesn’t remove the pain of this experience for my friend who sat there while the culture of her people was mocked and trivialized. But I want to re-write the story. I want to do theatre and absolve myself. Play the game. How am I any different?

The idea with Theatre of the Oppressed is that you get to role play the scene over and over until you come up with strong interventions that short-circuit oppression and open understanding.

But a sacred story isn’t a commodity, a trinket, a souvenir.

And surviving oppression isn’t a game, a play-acting script, make-believe.

Only my whiteness lets me see it that way. That’s what I learned from class tonight.


Unpacking PC: A Field Guide

Oh no, another sports team mascot debate. I feel exhausted already.

However, if we consider this article as a sociological artifact and do a little linguistic analysis, it gets interesting. Painful, but interesting…a field study on the side effects of political correctedness. Ready? Let’s see what we can find.

1) The article argues that the original caricature of an Indian was insensitive, whereas the new patch of tomahawks is not. The new logo is great because it pays “tribute to the franchise’s history without alienating a group of people.” (Ah, the irony of the word alien.) I notice two things here:

a) The debate is defined as an issue of courtesy and civility. It is not about genocide, broken treaties, stolen land, violated sovereignty. The author of the article sets the bounds of the debate as being about hurt feelings, not dead people.

b) The goal of the logo change is not to reverse the legacy of cultural appropriation and dehumanization. The goal is to pay tribute to history. A history in which tomahawks are a symbol of wars between white and Indian people. Wars which result in the destruction of Native civilization, culture and religion.

The franchise’s history continues, using a cultural symbol to invoke the same message as before.

2) The author states: “The [old] logo strips Native Americans of any humanity and turns them into a one-dimensional character devoid of any sympathy or tribute.” Here we find the prompts about how we are supposed to view Native people, either in sympathy (“alcoholic, unemployed, impoverished”) or in tribute (“close to the land, spiritual, noble savage”).

So, breaking it down, the old logo was bad because it encouraged non-Natives to fear and despise Native people.

The appropriate way to view Native people is to pity or idolize them.

Nothing has changed. Dehumanization continues, it just gets a new look.

3) The new logo gets the ultimate stamp of approval: “Even Hank Aaron approves.” The article doesn’t quote Hank, but the photo below shows a black man (Hank, in case you didn’t know) waving his hand and smiling. This reminds me that:

a) If a person of color (but especially a black person) approves of something, then it can’t be racist. This argument is corollary to #1 above, because the issue isn’t about injustice but about hurt feelings. If Hank says his feelings aren’t hurt, then they aren’t.

b) White people don’t have to take responsibility or understand why something they did was wrong if they can get the blessing of a black person.

c) Because even Hank approves, the message is that white people would of course approve. AHA! Here is where I clearly see the understory of the racism within the article.

On the surface, the message is that all good white people are not racist, so of course they would support this new logo. Under the surface, the message is that all good white people either know they are racist or know that black people believe they are racist.

The ultimate answer to this vague feeling of white guilt is to get the blessing of a black person for the cultural appropriation of a Native symbol which honors the legacy of white violence.

 

The problem with this article is that re-inscribes racism, relieves white people of responsibility, and reinforces our sense of things “getting better.” It tells us what “better” looks like. And “better” looks like more of the same.

 

p.s. Painful side note: in the comments below the article, the UP and DOWN votes serve to determine whose comments are displayed. If enough people vote down or flag a post, then the comment gets hidden. Reading through, I noticed that the comments by NDN (Native) people are being hidden because white-people-part-cherokee-princesses are voting them down. Look at how public discourse works to silence the minority.

 

 


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