Race Relations

I went running yesterday as part of the "Let's Do Better"campaign.  Today, I am hobbling around like a chimpanzee.  However, I am told that pain is gain, so my grimace is laced with optimism.

Anyway, I'm jogging along my usual path along the river in 90 degree heat, when I pass three women walking towards me wearing traditional Islamic garb.  They had on the hijab and jilbab - a head scarf and full robe, so that only your face is showing, as dictated by the Qur'an.  (Before you get impressed, yes, I Googled all that.) 

It was an unexpected sight in my corner of the world, but shouldn't be treated as such. And I am so sensitive to discrimination that I worry I go too far in the other direction.  Like shaking someone's hand extra hard or snorting at a lame joke, just to show "we're all one people." 

So, when I saw these three Muslim women walking along the path, I evaluated my choices. 

1.  Ignore them to show, Hey! No biggie!
2.  Smile at them to show I respect them (but is that over-eager?)
3.  Turn around and run away. 

Luckily, on the first pass, my choice was made for me.  I have the luxury of transitional lenses, so they couldn't see my eyes looking away behind my glasses.  But it didn't matter, because I was focused on the pretty little starbursts floating in front of me.

However, when I turned around and ran the other way, there they were.  Feeling like an idiot, I looked up, made eye contact with the one on the end, and smiled.  She smiled back.

It was a nice moment.  She wasn't judging me for running around in shorts with my muffin top jiggling out, and I wasn't judging her for wearing all black on a hot summer day. 

My thoughts turned to a movie I had seen with my daughter the night before. We joined 170 other women and girls for a screening of Girl Rising (http://girlrising.com/), a movie that depicts the impact of education on girls in third world countries.  One of the themes of the movie was that while there wasn't hope for the adults in those countries, the children still had a chance.

I disagreed.  I think, I HOPE, that grown-ups can always find a way to do better, and to prevail. Granted, I can't compare my life to that of a family living in squalor, surviving on scraps found in a landfill.  I will never know that type of suffering, nor will I ever be able to comprehend it.  What I am referring to is the human spirit, that thing that keeps you digging in the dirt, pushing forward when the world is pushing back even harder.

I was riding that high, thinking about that lofty goal, when I logged on to Facebook.  Here is what was posted by a resident on my neighborhood's group page:

Neighborhood watch. On May 15 at one thirty in the afternoon, I saw a tall (six foot three) mulatto man walking west on Forest Pond drive. His hair was short and he had a trimmed beard. He wave at me and I waved at him. He was carrying a small green box in his hand.

Dear God, call the troops.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I thought about my niece and nephew.  Two absolutely beautiful, amazing children, who have a white mother and black father.  I called my sister-in-law and asked her, "How do you feel about the term mulatto?"  I was told immediately and without pause that she and her husband did not care for it AT ALL.

So, I replied to the post, just behind my friend who, having my back, posted as well.

My Friend:  "I'm just curious, why was this cause for concern?"
Me:  "Coming from a mixed race family, I am trying to understand where the concern is? Is it possible he lives here or was visiting someone? Also the term mulatto is not widely accepted."

Four people "liked" my comment, but here is the response I received from another resident:

Neighbor:  "I would be concern if it were not a familiar face, mulatto, green, white or black, walking around our neighborhood. We have a sign in from of the neighborhood NO SOLICTORS. Lived in New Bedford for 27 years and am cognizant of anyone walking around that I don't know and still don't know all my neighbors. Caution is good thing. I don't know (name withheld), but appreciate his concern. Caution is a good thing."

When I saw this response, I evaluated my choices.

1. Ignore him so I don't stoop to his level.
2. Correct his usage of "concern" and "from" and spelling of "solicitors."
3. Remind him that it is not easy being green.

As of this moment, I have picked #1.  Not because I am afraid of a fight or am complacent, but because Rome wasn't built in a day.  Everyone is entitled to their opinion, and I can't assume that this is a case of racial profiling.  What I CAN assume is that neither of these neighbors, who happen to be white, have ever been black men.  So, they can't understand what they don't know.  And I will continue to voice MY opinion until my brother-in-law isn't afraid to walk down his own street at night in his own neighborhood, for fear of the police being called.

And yes, I realize that I have never been a black man, either.  However, I have discovered a DNA test for 99 dollars that can tell me if I have ever been a black woman. And I can't wait to find out.  Because, in truth, on the outside, we may all look different, but our innards are the same.  How wonderful would it be to spend more time acknowledging our sameness, rather than our differences?

Until next time, keep crowin' and caring.

Writer's Block

It has been one month and one day since I have written anything, and that is wrong for so many reasons.  It means I haven't made time for it, haven't been inspired, or haven't found myself that interesting.

I will say that life has overwhelmed me the last month.  It is very hard to re-enter the Earth's atmosphere after a zen-like, Utopian week of Spring Break.  We have a place we go that is truly my Disney World.  No people, no cars, no schedules.  I wish everyone could have that type of escape.

Coming back to the real world was shocking.  Like having your hair pulled out by your roots during a deep sleep.  I really am ready to retire, but since my kids are only 13 and 10, that's not an option.

I hit a few walls upon re-entry, and re-evaluated some things.  The older I get, the more often I have these "what needs fixing" talks with myself.  So, I looked at work, volunteer, and miscellaneous.

I can't quit work because it is part of the household income.  But, I was letting work dictate my schedule, rather than the other way around.  Being self-employed is great, until you realize you never clock out.  For instance, my biggest client sent me an assignment at 5:00 p.m. one day for an entire web site project that was due by the following morning. 

Did I stay up until 1:00 a.m. to finish it?  Yes, I did. 

Idiot.

But, I 'yam what I 'yam.  Can't help it.  However, I can complain about it and get some more money for it, which I did.  And then I created a production request system so that it wouldn't happen again.

Another wall was my volunteer work.  This year, I was in charge of the food/supply drives at my son's elementary school.  We collected items for underprivileged students in our area, and it was the best volunteer job I've ever had.  I met some amazing people - the librarian who ran a book fair all by herself, the assistant principal who started a food pantry for his families, the students who saw us roll in boxes and got excited about soup. 

I loved this job, but the loading, sorting and hauling was killing my back.  And after 11 visits to physical therapy, my insurance company cut me off because, according to them, I wasn't getting better.  Or, maybe they thought I was pathetic.  Either way, I had to give up the heavy lifting.

Then there was my Presidency with the theater awards group.  As is so often the case in my life, what began as a hobby became a career, and suddenly I'm in charge.  I stepped up to the plate because someone else was having a nervous breakdown.  But, they are doing better now, and so I rinsed off the plate and handed it back.  No more Presidency.

As for the miscellaneous, well, I'm working on it.  I realize I am a flawed human being. Every day, I wake up and tell myself, "Let's do better today."  Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't.  And sometimes God or Karma or Publix step in to remind me to try harder.  Like when the cashier said to me after scanning my purchases, "Wine is wine, right?  Doesn't matter how much it costs if it tastes good."

I didn't know a person with a custom wheelchair seat and meth-induced drawl could also moonlight as a sommelier, but far be it from me to judge.  Must be one of those Up With People programs.

At any rate, I have every intention of getting my groove back.  Not sure how I will do it, but it's on the agenda.  And if I'm smart, it will be a top priority.

Until then, keep crowin' and don't lose sight of yourself.

Sweating the Small Stuff

I walked into the physical therapy office the other day at 12:55 pm, and when I started signing in, I noticed the person before me had written 12:57.  Now, human nature would be to write 12:58 and have a seat, but I didn't get there at 12:58.  I got there at 12:55 and I wanted credit for those three minutes.  So, I wrote 12:55 and complimented myself on my punctuality.

Now, before you think I am pillar of accuracy, I will freely admit that when running late to the pediatrician, I have interpreted their office clock to be a minute or two fast at check in.  'Cause that's different.  Those minutes could mean the difference between waiting 15 minutes for a room, or being labeled late and waiting 45.

Which got me to thinking - is the devil in the details?

I certainly think so. Consider last week when I went to the antique store to buy a pre-lit Christmas tree ($55 for a 6-footer, thank you very much.)  As the store owner and I chatted, she inquired as to my occupation, and determined that I was exactly who she needed to help her redesign her website.  We talked turkey, and made an appointment to compare calendars.  And just when I had convinced myself that I could handle a new client, she released a giant fart cloud over my head.  "So," she says, "I barter, and for this service, I can give you a dining table."

Yeah, no. I don't think the power company accepts Lazy Susan's as a form of payment, so that bird won't fly.  Would have been nice if she'd led with that tidbit, but I suspect she's done this before.

Then there was Reservation-Gate at a XXXX restaurant.  I was planning a surprise party for my daughter's 13th birthday.  I emailed the owner - no reply. I called the restaurant - was told a manager would need to call me.  No call.  I physically walked into the restaurant at 11:00 am one day.

Stupid Hostess In Training: "We're not open."

Me: "I am not here to eat. I need to confirm a reservation."

SHIT: "Take this business card and email us."

Me: "I have done that. I want someone to call me."

SHIT: "OK, what's your name and number?" Writes it in dry erase marker on a menu.  Upon hearing my name, "Oh yeah. You're here in the computer, see?"

Me: "Thank you."  And a pox on your house.

So, that weekend, the surprise goes off without a hitch, and now everyone is seated and enjoying the moment.  My cell phone rings.

"This is SHIT at XXXX and we are wondering if you are still planning to come in tonight.  Your reservation was for 6:30 and we haven't seen you yet."

Mother of God.

So I walk up to the hostess stand and there she is with two underlings.  

Me: "I just got a message asking me if I am going to honor my reservation.  I am here."

SHIT: "Oh, well, when you changed the number in your party it caused a problem and you actually have 2 reservations in the sys- ME: "I. AM. HERE."

Underling: "And we're so glad you are!! :) :) :) 

I walked away, and then smiled brightly when SHIT was called into serve me my meal.

Details.  They are important.  And just like a misplaced comma, they could mean the difference between someone's life, or death.  (i.e., Let's eat, Grandpa vs. Let's eat Grandpa).

Let's not eat Grandpa.  Let's care about details and get them right.  Except when it's not convenient for me, of course.

Until next time, keep crowin'!

Phys Ed

Being tall and gangly for much of my life, I have had to deal with the expectation that I was naturally good at tall-people things, when, in fact, I was not.  Basketball, Volleyball, Modeling, Light-bulb changing - I never broke the glass ceiling.

And I didn't even try.  I admit it, I was never loyal to my tribe. For instance, I got paired romantically with the tallest boy in middle school, because I guess no one knew what else to do with us. We dated for about a week in January, but when he tried to put his arm around me, I told him I had a sunburn and that was the end of it.

Also in middle school, I was put on the basketball team, only to last 2 practices, due to asthma --- and lack of ability. My physical peak was the girls' PE dance to "Jump" by Van Halen.

In high school, I made the tennis team, but my coach told everyone that I was "sorry" due to "the asthma" that kept me out of practice.

In adulthood, I again joined a tennis team, only to break my foot during the second practice.  I even tried training for a half marathon, but my body hit 6 miles and said "you must be high."

Being tall was my destiny, not athletics.

And as the years have gone on, my body has continued to disagree with me, to the point that I am now in Physical Therapy.  And I hate it.  The therapist is nice, but the tech is a punk that smacks gum and leaves me alone to check things off a piece of paper after he explains the exercises.

After my second day of PT, I met a friend right after for lunch at Whole Foods.  She was about to start a new job and this was our chance to catch up before she got really busy.  As we stood in line to pay for our salads, I heard a voice behind me:

"Women should never be taller than men."

I pivoted around to look down and see a shorter, older, African-American man smiling up at me. Before I could process his comment, he continued, touching me on the arm while he said:

"Men don't like women who are tall.  We like to be in charge.  Women lie and make us think we're the boss, but they control it all.  My son just got married and his whole den was in a New York theme, and his wife got rid of it all."

Yep, this is my life.  I'm a magnet. So, I told him that tall women loved being tall and in control.  And then it was time to pay for my salad.

As my friend and I sat down, we laughed about how weird things always happened when we were together.  And then the man sat at the table next to us, so that I was diagonal to him and couldn't avoid eye contact.   He got up a few times to fidget around, and then came back to our table.

Him:  "I've got to ask you - what is your nationality?"
Me: "Caucasian, as far as I know."
Him: "With your dark skin and eyes, you've got some Sister in you."

Am I on Candid Camera?  Or is it time to pay for the full membership to Ancestry.com?

To his credit, the man didn't zero in on me.  He proceeded to visit every table with females, and even flag down a car in the parking lot with a woman driver.  But, despite his wide range of tastes in the opposite sex, he managed to identify my two truths - Number One, I am Very Tall, and Number Two, I might not be Caucasian.

So, where do I go from here?  Well, nowhere.  I still have the asthma, I am not shrinking - yet, and with summer approaching I won't get any paler.  It is what it is, until I find out otherwise.

I have Physical Therapy tomorrow and have not done my exercises. But I will lie to the tech and say I did, and he will keep chewing his gum and the world will go round.  And I will still be a giant black woman.

Until next time, keep crowin'!

Let's Get Real

So, I am volunteering at the middle school front office, having a lovely morning, as always, with the women that work there.  One was absent, so a male teacher came up during his free period to do paperwork at her empty desk.  Unusual choice, so someone asked him why:

Someone: "Anthony, what are you doing up here?"
Anthony: "I came up here to hang out with the East Cobb Housewives."

In case you are wondering, he was referring to me.

Me: "Who you calling a housewife?!"

Because I took offense.  Look, I am a wife and I have a house.  Lots of women do. But I am not this: 

 

That is what "housewife" means to me.  It connotes home-bound, or subservient, or Stepford.  There are millions of women who do not work, but they are not housewives.  They are many interesting things, ranging from partners, mothers, aunts, daughters, sisters, volunteers, friends, managers, nurturers, hobbyists ... but they are not just that one thing.  And that's why I hate the term.

I happen to work from home, which means I have the flexibility to volunteer. I also happen to be a terrible cook and cleaner.  When my husband comes home from work, I am in sweats and a ponytail.  But I can buy a birthday present like a motherf*$@er.  Ain't no housewife here.

What Anthony found out later in the conversation is that I went to the same prestigious college as his brother and sister-in-law, that I have a quick wit and excellent customer service skills, and that he has a small penis.

It's OK.  Women are used to getting a bad rap.  We're damned for being career-minded and we're damned for being family-minded.  And if you even attempt to do both, well, then you better have a good pharmacist.

I love that we live in a world where women get to choose.  And I can't wait for Anthony's 2-year-old daughter to give him a run for his money.

Until next time, keep crowin'!

That Kid

I admit it.  I was "that parent" on Sunday.  I was the mom that picked up my kid early from church, hustled her to her lacrosse game, became indignant at the injustices during said game, and when it was over, grumbled to myself (and my husband) about her amount of playing time.  And while, on the outside, she and I talked constructively about her goals and how she could work with the coach to meet those goals, on the inside, I was still steaming.  I wanted her to get a fair shake. I wanted her to get noticed by the coaches.  I wanted her to stand out for her talents and abilities.

And then I realized - she already does. 

Sometimes I lose sight of the fact that my prayers for my children are not that they be the best athletes or students, but that they be the best people.  My goal isn't to raise Olympians but humanitarians and philanthropists and nurturing souls.  And I do forget that sometimes in the heat of battle.

My daughter was very ill last fall, and still showed up to team try-outs.  She could barely stand up straight.  The coach took one look at her and sent her home, and gave her another chance later to join the team.  She couldn't make it to practice one day because of a fever, and still had me drive her to the field to explain to the coach that she would not let him down.

That's a win, people.

I can also see that commitment with my son.  He will fly through the air and take a hit before he will let go of a play.  He doesn't miss an opportunity to congratulate another player for a good move.  And he makes sure we pray for the homeless every night at dinner.

Nothing can beat that.

They may not be the best at everything they do. There will be others that score more goals, get better grades, and earn more accolades.  But if my kids continue to show commitment, sportsmanship, and care for their fellow human, I'm good.

That day at church that I was in such a rush to leave, they were wrapping up a youth retreat, and a visiting band sang one of my favorite songs:

My God's not dead
He's surely alive
He's living on the inside
Roaring like a lion.

While I strive as a mother to live those lines and to encourage that godliness in my children, I will always need gentle reminders.  And so, I draw inspiration from the lions in the videos below.









God bless the children that press on, though their bodies and minds hold them back.  And God bless the children that see their perseverance, and reward their spirit with personal sacrifice, so that they may know a moment of success.

Amen.

Until next time, keep crowin'!

Covered Dish Pot Luck Casserole Surprise

Everyone has a love language.  For some, it's random acts of kindness.  For others, it's a hug and a kiss.  And for Southern women, it's supper in a Tupperware with our names written on the bottom in Sharpie.

I can't think of a celebration, tragedy, family holiday or neighborhood gathering of any kind that does not involve food.  My memories of childhood can be bookmarked by homemade chicken and dumplings, fried mullet, collard greens and pound cake.  On my mother's side, all events involved miles of tables filled with food, as evidenced in the photo below.

Look how cute I am.

In those days, everything was homemade from scratch.  One simply did not show up with a store-bought pie.  Not only would you shame The Aunts with your lack of cooking know-how, but you were clearly stating that you didn't love the family enough to try.  Our matriarchs lived on the same street and did that type of cooking every day.  If they went to a restaurant in their small town, it was to the Women's Club or somewhere that served food just like theirs.  Aunt Leona hadn't even tried pizza until age 90.

So how did food become equal to love?  I know, for me, it's sometimes the only thing I can do to help a loved one.  A death in the family?  Let me bring you dinner.  Going through chemotherapy?  I'll be by at 6:00 with soup.  Bunion surgery?  That calls for barbecue.

Because if our mouths are filled with food, then we don't have to admit our helplessness, that we don't know what to say or do.  It feeds our need to fix a problem, even though deep down we know we can't.  And because the meal is not just food, but an expression of love, it has to be perfect.  That is why --- and I can say this now because enough people have passed since the above photo ---- I order out.

It's not that I can't cook.  I can.  I pull out the big guns on the holidays, and spend hours on casseroles that invoke the days of old.  BUT, I am a one-trick pony the rest of the year, and my kids take bets on how many nights each week they'll be served chicken with rice with beans. Or that Dad is cooking.

The reason I turn to Super Suppers Family Style Gourmet To Go is directly tied to The Aunts' disdain for such things.  Failure is not an option, the stakes are high, and everyone is watching.  So, rather than falter, I'm going with the winning horse and take my trot in champion's row. 

In the beginning, it was a secret.  I would buy cookies at the store and then put them on my own plate, and when people asked for the recipe, I said I would try to find it.  But as I got older, I learned to be OK with my truth, that while pie baking and sock darning skills bubbled up in my gene pool like a geyser, they clearly skipped over me and splashed down onto the next generation.  My 10-year-old son is a better baker than me, and yet, I can still sleep at night. 

Food brings people together, and better yet, it keeps us at the table.  Doesn't matter how it gets there, and just like a secret, it's much more delicious when shared.

Until next time, keep crowin' and learn to speak Take-Out!