Many of us refer to the work performed by the United States Postal Service as "snail mail," because it's so much slower than email or even texting. Though we may laugh at how long it takes for a letter to move through their system, the system itself is somewhat efficient.
Rachel Dolezal has claimed over the years that she's been on the receiving end of various hate-related intimidation tactics. From finding a noose outside her front door to receiving threatening mail in her PO Box. In the end it was discovered that the noose belonged to a hunter who used it to cure meat. And the letter? After an extensive investigation, the Post Office determined that the letter never went through their system and the only way it would have ended up in the NAACP box was if someone who had a key placed it there.
And there is so much more. For a timeline of Dolezal's hate crime claims look here.
Not a single one of these claims has lead to an arrest. The investigations have always ended with inconclusive results. When I first heard about this story - a woman who misled others about her own heritage in order to adopt another - I wondered what was missing in her life to make her long so desperately to be someone else. Then, as pieces began to unfold, I realized there was something else there, hidden behind the jokes about her hair, her birth parents claiming she's really white, and the ensuing circus.
In the dark shadows of this story is a woman either so hungry for attention or so unbalanced that she may have fabricated (or even created) incidents of hate and intimidation. Did she think it was exciting? Fun?
Over the years I've read several stories and watched videos of the victims of hate crimes coming forward to share their stories. None of them have acted as though they'd just gotten off of a thrill ride at an amusement park. Something fundamental may be broken in Dolezal's mind, something completely unrelated to the color of her skin.
Showing posts with label Hard Truths. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hard Truths. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Sunday, June 7, 2015
Project Implicit
I'm in the middle of something and I don't know exactly what it is. In the past, I've used this blog not so much as a megaphone for any one perspective, but really as a place to work myself out. So, here goes.
A few years ago, around the time a black boy named Trayvon Martin was killed for walking down the street, I wrote a blog post called, "Please Don't Kill My Sons." I didn't post it initially because I'm a chicken. Eventually I posted it, but it was still buried on my site because I posted it chronologically, so it was never the first page on my blog.
I did this, in part, because I was still in the fog and I couldn't yet see the sun.
Anyway, I've been freaked out about this whole thing, but still determined to believe in the good of the average police officer, etc, etc., but I still had a lot of feelings about the way things are. Some of these stories don't lie. There's no way around what happened to Tamir Rice. He looks so much like my son and reacted the way my son would and the same way that a lot of other 12 year-olds would.
A car was suddenly careening towards him on the grass. Someone was yelling. And (most likely) before he could even process what was happening, he received a deadly wound. For what? A few weeks ago over breakfast a friend of mind said that Rice raised his gun. Then this friend asked why Rice's gun didn't have a red tag on it.
After watching that video I honestly don't know if that cop even had time to notice whether or not the gun had a red tag. But Rice was 12. 12 year-olds should not be sentenced to death because their toy gun is mising a tag or because they move their arm the wrong way while standing in a park watching a car that's racing towards them. There is no way to train a child to handle that. Do I instead just tell my boys to never leave the house? Do I tell them to never trust the police?
I knew that couldn't be right. I researched more, searched deeper, and deeper, looking more closely at unconscious bias. It's really the only thing that gives me hope.
I can see so many exampels of inequality - related to race, class, gender, religion, sexuality, and so much more - and it hurts my heart. I don't want to believe that we live in a world like this. My white, Christian, heterosexual friends have the same emotion but it leads them to believe that race is no longer an issue and that the real problem is that we keep talking about it. Just like me, they don't want to believe that we live in a world where so many people are trying to hold others down because of their race, their gender, their weight, their sexuality. My friends want to believe it's a coincidence.
But when I look into the bright, brown faces that greet me each morning, I realize that denial is one luxury that has not been afforded to me.
In the years since writing that first post in response to Martin's death, I've learned about how complicated the human brain is - much more complicated than I'd ever imagined. I realized that the mind puts objects and memories in categories, sometimes those categories come in the form of stereotypes. Bias, preferring one group over another in ways that defy the values we profess to hold, is part of the human experience. It doesn't mean we're evil, it means we're human.
The other day I was listening to the radio and someone (possibly one of the many Republican presidential candidates) was asked to comment on the "conversation" that many black parents feel the need to have with their black sons. He responded that he was aware of those conversations but that he could not relate. For a moment I thought he was going to validate an experience that he hasn't had to live, I thought he would find a way to empathize. Instead, he explained that he couldn't relate because he teaches his children to respect everyone, not just police officers. Ouch.
But he doesn't get it. He doesn't realize that he's looking at the issue from a place of privilege. As a man and a white person, he holds a place in line that others don't. From his vantage point, a certain level of hard work equals results. If everyone worked even half has hard as he did in life, then there would be no need for entitlements, right? Wrong. He's wrong, but not evil.
When I was in school the teachers would say that racism and bigotry were about ignorance. I could never figure out if they meant that people who lynch and burn crosses on lawns needed a basic course in human genetics or if my teachers were trying to tell me that these individuals just needed more friends of color.
30 years later I agree and completely disagree. I do think it's about ignorance. But it's not about cultural competency and simply learning about how we're all different. The fact that we're different is not something that needs to be taught. We all know that. Studying the cultures and histories of every type of people group imaginable would overload the mind. And really, isn't that just a call to be politically correct.
We are ignorant. Not about each other, but about ourselves. What we don't know is how our hidden minds - in what always seems to me as a beautiful show of efficiency, executed at the speed of light - can intuitively and quite innocently put people into categories that then inform even the smallest interactions we have with them.
Basically, in our nation there are systems at play, systems that every single one of us either helps to make and/or maintain, that privilege some while holding back others. Not because we're bad, but because we're human. While certain groups most certainly experience bias differently than others, we're all guilty.
There is no Skynet and the only Matrix at play here has nothing to do with Keanu Reeves. The real matrix that keeps us so far apart from one another is the one that lives in each of our unconscious minds.
I have bias and so do you. You don't need to memorize the challengs of every religious, racial, cultutal, or gender group you might come into contact with. How will you also remember how to do your job? No one wants a world in which we're all walking around on egg shells.
We need to know which group or groups is most likely to make us act in ways that don't align with our vaues. The best way I know how to find that out is by taking the Implicit Bias Test.
It worked for me.
A few years ago, around the time a black boy named Trayvon Martin was killed for walking down the street, I wrote a blog post called, "Please Don't Kill My Sons." I didn't post it initially because I'm a chicken. Eventually I posted it, but it was still buried on my site because I posted it chronologically, so it was never the first page on my blog.
I did this, in part, because I was still in the fog and I couldn't yet see the sun.
Anyway, I've been freaked out about this whole thing, but still determined to believe in the good of the average police officer, etc, etc., but I still had a lot of feelings about the way things are. Some of these stories don't lie. There's no way around what happened to Tamir Rice. He looks so much like my son and reacted the way my son would and the same way that a lot of other 12 year-olds would.
A car was suddenly careening towards him on the grass. Someone was yelling. And (most likely) before he could even process what was happening, he received a deadly wound. For what? A few weeks ago over breakfast a friend of mind said that Rice raised his gun. Then this friend asked why Rice's gun didn't have a red tag on it.
After watching that video I honestly don't know if that cop even had time to notice whether or not the gun had a red tag. But Rice was 12. 12 year-olds should not be sentenced to death because their toy gun is mising a tag or because they move their arm the wrong way while standing in a park watching a car that's racing towards them. There is no way to train a child to handle that. Do I instead just tell my boys to never leave the house? Do I tell them to never trust the police?
I knew that couldn't be right. I researched more, searched deeper, and deeper, looking more closely at unconscious bias. It's really the only thing that gives me hope.
I can see so many exampels of inequality - related to race, class, gender, religion, sexuality, and so much more - and it hurts my heart. I don't want to believe that we live in a world like this. My white, Christian, heterosexual friends have the same emotion but it leads them to believe that race is no longer an issue and that the real problem is that we keep talking about it. Just like me, they don't want to believe that we live in a world where so many people are trying to hold others down because of their race, their gender, their weight, their sexuality. My friends want to believe it's a coincidence.
But when I look into the bright, brown faces that greet me each morning, I realize that denial is one luxury that has not been afforded to me.
In the years since writing that first post in response to Martin's death, I've learned about how complicated the human brain is - much more complicated than I'd ever imagined. I realized that the mind puts objects and memories in categories, sometimes those categories come in the form of stereotypes. Bias, preferring one group over another in ways that defy the values we profess to hold, is part of the human experience. It doesn't mean we're evil, it means we're human.
The other day I was listening to the radio and someone (possibly one of the many Republican presidential candidates) was asked to comment on the "conversation" that many black parents feel the need to have with their black sons. He responded that he was aware of those conversations but that he could not relate. For a moment I thought he was going to validate an experience that he hasn't had to live, I thought he would find a way to empathize. Instead, he explained that he couldn't relate because he teaches his children to respect everyone, not just police officers. Ouch.
But he doesn't get it. He doesn't realize that he's looking at the issue from a place of privilege. As a man and a white person, he holds a place in line that others don't. From his vantage point, a certain level of hard work equals results. If everyone worked even half has hard as he did in life, then there would be no need for entitlements, right? Wrong. He's wrong, but not evil.
When I was in school the teachers would say that racism and bigotry were about ignorance. I could never figure out if they meant that people who lynch and burn crosses on lawns needed a basic course in human genetics or if my teachers were trying to tell me that these individuals just needed more friends of color.
30 years later I agree and completely disagree. I do think it's about ignorance. But it's not about cultural competency and simply learning about how we're all different. The fact that we're different is not something that needs to be taught. We all know that. Studying the cultures and histories of every type of people group imaginable would overload the mind. And really, isn't that just a call to be politically correct.
We are ignorant. Not about each other, but about ourselves. What we don't know is how our hidden minds - in what always seems to me as a beautiful show of efficiency, executed at the speed of light - can intuitively and quite innocently put people into categories that then inform even the smallest interactions we have with them.
Basically, in our nation there are systems at play, systems that every single one of us either helps to make and/or maintain, that privilege some while holding back others. Not because we're bad, but because we're human. While certain groups most certainly experience bias differently than others, we're all guilty.
There is no Skynet and the only Matrix at play here has nothing to do with Keanu Reeves. The real matrix that keeps us so far apart from one another is the one that lives in each of our unconscious minds.
I have bias and so do you. You don't need to memorize the challengs of every religious, racial, cultutal, or gender group you might come into contact with. How will you also remember how to do your job? No one wants a world in which we're all walking around on egg shells.
We need to know which group or groups is most likely to make us act in ways that don't align with our vaues. The best way I know how to find that out is by taking the Implicit Bias Test.
It worked for me.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Ray Rice: Are Some People Beyond Hope?
Never in a million years did I ever think I'd link to something on TMZ. For the record, they've lead the way in robbing celebrities (who are people, too) of their privacy by paying kids with cameras (okay 20 somethings, but still) to stalk famous people and take pictures of them picking their noses, eating fast food, or simply walking.
But, never say never.
Years ago there was an Oprah Winfrey show that left me with a question. It was a show about domestic violence. If I remember correctly, most of the guests were survivors or family members of women who'd been killed by their partners. One guest was a woman who appeared with her husband. (I think it was her husband) He had tried to kill her. They were reconciled. He was working on his anger.
Before this woman and her husband appeared, the message was clear that a woman in a relationship with a physically abusive man needs to get the hell out. (Yes, there are lots of other forms of abuse, but that's for another day). Then, the woman who'd chosen to stay came on as one of the last guests. She sat there and explained how her husband, who was sitting right next to her, had strangled her and screamed at her. She believed in that moment that he would kill her.
I sensed an awkwardness just hanging in the air as this woman explained how she feared him, but loved him, and understood his demons. She was willing to stand by him.
A the time I was struck with a question. Is it realistic to say that all men who beat women should be left behind, ran from, and denied the hope of sexual intimacy? In this scenario, a man who hits a woman would have to remain celibate for life. If we as a society have a no return policy on perpetrators of domestic violence, then we're encouraging men to lie and to deny that they've struggled with this.
Imagine that a man tells a woman that he hit his former partner, sought counseling, and has worked through those demons. But she is an "emotionally healthy," self-possessed woman who will not allow herself to ever be with a man who would hit a woman. Where does this man go? Does he lie to her and pretend his past never happened? Does he seek out desperate, "emotionally unhealthy" women, who are willing to date a reformed abuser?
We live in strange times. Part of me thinks that we have to make room for people to change and to reinvent themselves. How can we breathe if there's no hope for change?
Then I saw this and was horrified. I was horrified. After he punched her, after he lifted her limp body and dropped her face down on the ground, he kicked her calves as if irritated that she was in the way of the elevator doors. At first when I watched it I thought that maybe Ray Rice believed his then fiancee was overreacting or pretending.
But even when it became clear that she'd passed out, he didn't help her. She slowly came to and it appears she was crying. He stood a part from her, several feet away watching. Maybe they told him to stay away from her. I don't know.
What I do know is that Janay went on to marry him.
Recently, she expressed her views on social media. She's mad at us for sticking our nose into other people's business. She's mad at us for caring. For being appalled. Mad that he lost his dream job. Sure, some of this is about politics. But what is it that can make a man treat any human being with such utter disregard. And what is it in her that keeps her from being able to hold him accountable?
And what is it in me that wants to believe in everyone even the abusers? It's one thing to watch a talk show and tell myself that there's hope for everyone.
But watching Ray Rice beat up and toss around the love his life made a little bit of my hope for humanity slip away.
But, never say never.
Years ago there was an Oprah Winfrey show that left me with a question. It was a show about domestic violence. If I remember correctly, most of the guests were survivors or family members of women who'd been killed by their partners. One guest was a woman who appeared with her husband. (I think it was her husband) He had tried to kill her. They were reconciled. He was working on his anger.
Before this woman and her husband appeared, the message was clear that a woman in a relationship with a physically abusive man needs to get the hell out. (Yes, there are lots of other forms of abuse, but that's for another day). Then, the woman who'd chosen to stay came on as one of the last guests. She sat there and explained how her husband, who was sitting right next to her, had strangled her and screamed at her. She believed in that moment that he would kill her.
I sensed an awkwardness just hanging in the air as this woman explained how she feared him, but loved him, and understood his demons. She was willing to stand by him.
A the time I was struck with a question. Is it realistic to say that all men who beat women should be left behind, ran from, and denied the hope of sexual intimacy? In this scenario, a man who hits a woman would have to remain celibate for life. If we as a society have a no return policy on perpetrators of domestic violence, then we're encouraging men to lie and to deny that they've struggled with this.
Imagine that a man tells a woman that he hit his former partner, sought counseling, and has worked through those demons. But she is an "emotionally healthy," self-possessed woman who will not allow herself to ever be with a man who would hit a woman. Where does this man go? Does he lie to her and pretend his past never happened? Does he seek out desperate, "emotionally unhealthy" women, who are willing to date a reformed abuser?
We live in strange times. Part of me thinks that we have to make room for people to change and to reinvent themselves. How can we breathe if there's no hope for change?
Then I saw this and was horrified. I was horrified. After he punched her, after he lifted her limp body and dropped her face down on the ground, he kicked her calves as if irritated that she was in the way of the elevator doors. At first when I watched it I thought that maybe Ray Rice believed his then fiancee was overreacting or pretending.
But even when it became clear that she'd passed out, he didn't help her. She slowly came to and it appears she was crying. He stood a part from her, several feet away watching. Maybe they told him to stay away from her. I don't know.
What I do know is that Janay went on to marry him.
Recently, she expressed her views on social media. She's mad at us for sticking our nose into other people's business. She's mad at us for caring. For being appalled. Mad that he lost his dream job. Sure, some of this is about politics. But what is it that can make a man treat any human being with such utter disregard. And what is it in her that keeps her from being able to hold him accountable?
And what is it in me that wants to believe in everyone even the abusers? It's one thing to watch a talk show and tell myself that there's hope for everyone.
But watching Ray Rice beat up and toss around the love his life made a little bit of my hope for humanity slip away.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Anthony Bourdain - Parts Unknown
I found out a little late that Booker's story, or at least part of it, was going to be included in one of Anthony Bourdain's food shows. Parts Unknown is the name of the show. I'm hoping to be able to get my hands on the episode to see it for myself, but I did hear that they aired Booker's monologue.
I'm thrilled, beyond thrilled really, because more people are learning about his story. No one in my family even knew my grandfather made those statements until about seven years ago. He protected his daughters and my whole family from his thoughts and feelings about his work at Lusco's. When we finally found the footage it brought both joy and heartache. Joy because we could see him, moving and speaking and laughing. Heartache because of how much shame he endured every night just to make a living.
I read Anthony's blog post about the Delta. Yes, it is an amazing place. It's virtually impossible to measure all the things we have as Americans that originated there. But like an Achilles heel, the history of slavery and the legacy of segregation will always be a part of the South's rich inheritance. The story of man's subjugation to man is written all over the Delta. It's painted on people's faces, it's in the space that often still separates whites and blacks, it's in their laws, their customs, and is an integral fiber in the every day lives of today's Mississippians.
If you find yourself interested in the Mississippi Delta's rich, tragic past try not to gawk as though observing a car wreck or even a horrifyingly beautiful work of art.
Howard Zinn, one of the nation's most beloved historians, said the South is a mirror. When we look at her, we're seeing a concentrated version of the rest of the nation. The Mississippi Delta is not some random, scandal-ridden anomaly, a stain on our nation, and the excuse for why the state ranks last in almost every barometer that measures quality of life.
The Delta is none of those things.
What is it? It's us. It's all that we're capable of - good and bad. It's what is beautiful and tragic about the human spirit.
It's really not all that different down there after all.
I'm thrilled, beyond thrilled really, because more people are learning about his story. No one in my family even knew my grandfather made those statements until about seven years ago. He protected his daughters and my whole family from his thoughts and feelings about his work at Lusco's. When we finally found the footage it brought both joy and heartache. Joy because we could see him, moving and speaking and laughing. Heartache because of how much shame he endured every night just to make a living.
I read Anthony's blog post about the Delta. Yes, it is an amazing place. It's virtually impossible to measure all the things we have as Americans that originated there. But like an Achilles heel, the history of slavery and the legacy of segregation will always be a part of the South's rich inheritance. The story of man's subjugation to man is written all over the Delta. It's painted on people's faces, it's in the space that often still separates whites and blacks, it's in their laws, their customs, and is an integral fiber in the every day lives of today's Mississippians.
If you find yourself interested in the Mississippi Delta's rich, tragic past try not to gawk as though observing a car wreck or even a horrifyingly beautiful work of art.
Howard Zinn, one of the nation's most beloved historians, said the South is a mirror. When we look at her, we're seeing a concentrated version of the rest of the nation. The Mississippi Delta is not some random, scandal-ridden anomaly, a stain on our nation, and the excuse for why the state ranks last in almost every barometer that measures quality of life.
The Delta is none of those things.
What is it? It's us. It's all that we're capable of - good and bad. It's what is beautiful and tragic about the human spirit.
It's really not all that different down there after all.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Facing My Fears
Only a few people in the United States (I think the number might be 2) hold a degree in library science AND have a genealogy certificate. I spent my morning with one of these experts today.
There are details about my grandfather's life that I need to confirm. One of the possibilities is mind-boggling and amazing, but unlikely. One of the others is downright scary. It's kind of the 11th hour. I've known that I need to nail down these pieces for some time now. I have to finish this book, ideally by the end of the year, so I'm running out of time. I won't to go to print without diligently completing my research.
People have memories. I've relied on those memories to construct a story, a story that's been painful to bear at times, but that has redefined my entire life. But I'm making a public statement in the form of a book and I can't do that without knowing for sure that every stone has been turned over. But I feel so afraid.
A few summers ago I was in Mississippi and I was learning things about my grandfather. Even though he'd been dead for 38 years he was still a volatile figure. People (both black and white) still loved or hated him.
How can you hate someone whose been dead for 38 years? There were people who couldn't wait to come out of the woodwork to share their stories about what a horrible man he was. I was devastated. Looking back I don't know why. Nobody is perfect. But somehow I had let myself believe that his excellence would rub off on me, that he would shine bright from the beyond and that I'd be able to feel his rays warming me when I needed him most.
When people shared those negative things about him two years ago I was shattered. I remember being in Greenwood and having to remind myself to walk, to exhale, because all I wanted to do was curl up in a dusty cotton field and waste away. My tongue felt heavy on the rough of my mouth, my palms were sweaty, lips shaking. I'd worked so hard to construct a hero and he was being torn down, in part, because of my own research.
I'm kind of in that place again, only in some ways it's worse. Now I'm not just up against people's memories, but facts. It's a good thing. I have an incredibly talented and generous woman helping me. But I'm still afraid.
There are details about my grandfather's life that I need to confirm. One of the possibilities is mind-boggling and amazing, but unlikely. One of the others is downright scary. It's kind of the 11th hour. I've known that I need to nail down these pieces for some time now. I have to finish this book, ideally by the end of the year, so I'm running out of time. I won't to go to print without diligently completing my research.
People have memories. I've relied on those memories to construct a story, a story that's been painful to bear at times, but that has redefined my entire life. But I'm making a public statement in the form of a book and I can't do that without knowing for sure that every stone has been turned over. But I feel so afraid.
A few summers ago I was in Mississippi and I was learning things about my grandfather. Even though he'd been dead for 38 years he was still a volatile figure. People (both black and white) still loved or hated him.
How can you hate someone whose been dead for 38 years? There were people who couldn't wait to come out of the woodwork to share their stories about what a horrible man he was. I was devastated. Looking back I don't know why. Nobody is perfect. But somehow I had let myself believe that his excellence would rub off on me, that he would shine bright from the beyond and that I'd be able to feel his rays warming me when I needed him most.
When people shared those negative things about him two years ago I was shattered. I remember being in Greenwood and having to remind myself to walk, to exhale, because all I wanted to do was curl up in a dusty cotton field and waste away. My tongue felt heavy on the rough of my mouth, my palms were sweaty, lips shaking. I'd worked so hard to construct a hero and he was being torn down, in part, because of my own research.
I'm kind of in that place again, only in some ways it's worse. Now I'm not just up against people's memories, but facts. It's a good thing. I have an incredibly talented and generous woman helping me. But I'm still afraid.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
A Delta Discussion
I've been working hard to bring Greenwood to life on the page, and it's working. I have an amazing research assistant who tirelessly scours digital archives and reaches out to professors in an effort to get the most accurate data we can. The more that I learn about Greenwood in the 1960s, the more amazed I am. There's so much about what happened in that small town that sheds light on how regular, everyday people could seemingly ignore systematic, sustained societal racism.
When the documentary about my grandfather premiered in New York City in April, 2012, someone from the audience asked how I would respond to black Christians who hate homosexuals. He seemed to feel that it was hypocritical for blacks to talk about the oppression of yesterday if they were actively engaged in oppressing homosexuals today. I agreed with him, but then I explained that every group has their jihad. Every group has that subset of extremists. Just because a person is a member of a group, doesn't mean that they represent all of the other members of that group, or that they agree with every idea that comes from that group.
In towns like Greenwood, there were men and women who made it their mission to maintain a segregated state. What blows me away is the lengths that they went to in order to achieve their goals. Very, very, very few books talk about this, but there was a newsletter called "A Delta Discussion" that was distributed door to door. The newsletter was filled with dire predictions about what would happen if the schools were integrated. They included stories from far off communities that had tried to integrate and then had incidents of violence. These newsletters also included the names of white store owners who were enforcing the Civil Rights Act, by allowing blacks to patronize their establishments. Whites were encouraged to stop going to these stores all together.
It's important to remember that Greenwood was a small town, surrounded by plantations. Most whites in Greenwood had known the other whites in Greenwood for all of their lives. These relationships had been establishments generations before the civil rights movement came along. Most whites had grown up with a distorted view of blacks. They were too close to it to question it. Then people from the outside (from the Northern states) began to question how Southern blacks were being treated. Those questions were challenged, not by strangers, but by the neighbors. Whites who were racist in Greenwood had an enormous amount of influence over other whites because of the familiarity between the two groups.
Imagine having someone come into your town for a visit and tell you that your wife is unhappy in your marriage. Your friends tell you not to listen to this stranger. They can all but prove to you that your wife is happy Your wife is silent. Most blacks over the age of 25 were relatively silent on civil rights until the tide started to turn. Pretending that things weren't as bad for blacks as Northern whites were describing was pretty simple to do.
The efforts to maintain segregation became a complex, intricate, and expertly executed campaign. The campaign struck people where they would feel it the most. The average Greenwood citizen was made to believe that if they let integration occur that they would lose their children. Their children would marry blacks who, according to the campaign were beast-like illiterates. Many believed that blacks were more sexual than whites. Why did they believe these things? Do you believe the earth is round? How do you know? Have you personally conducted science experiments to prove it or do you just know because that's what someone in authority told you?
Obviously, I don't support or condone racism or people who ignore racism. But if I seek only to distance myself from the "white Southerner" and lump then all in with Byron De La Beckwith, then I'm missing an opportunity to learn an important lesson about human nature. I've forced myself to really ponder whether or not I would have the eyes to see past the rhetoric and see the oppression of the people around me if I was a white middle class person living in Greenwood in the 1960s.
What I know is that Booker Wright provided that opportunity for many Greenwood whites. He did something that removed their blinders. And for that, I am thankful.
When the documentary about my grandfather premiered in New York City in April, 2012, someone from the audience asked how I would respond to black Christians who hate homosexuals. He seemed to feel that it was hypocritical for blacks to talk about the oppression of yesterday if they were actively engaged in oppressing homosexuals today. I agreed with him, but then I explained that every group has their jihad. Every group has that subset of extremists. Just because a person is a member of a group, doesn't mean that they represent all of the other members of that group, or that they agree with every idea that comes from that group.
In towns like Greenwood, there were men and women who made it their mission to maintain a segregated state. What blows me away is the lengths that they went to in order to achieve their goals. Very, very, very few books talk about this, but there was a newsletter called "A Delta Discussion" that was distributed door to door. The newsletter was filled with dire predictions about what would happen if the schools were integrated. They included stories from far off communities that had tried to integrate and then had incidents of violence. These newsletters also included the names of white store owners who were enforcing the Civil Rights Act, by allowing blacks to patronize their establishments. Whites were encouraged to stop going to these stores all together.
It's important to remember that Greenwood was a small town, surrounded by plantations. Most whites in Greenwood had known the other whites in Greenwood for all of their lives. These relationships had been establishments generations before the civil rights movement came along. Most whites had grown up with a distorted view of blacks. They were too close to it to question it. Then people from the outside (from the Northern states) began to question how Southern blacks were being treated. Those questions were challenged, not by strangers, but by the neighbors. Whites who were racist in Greenwood had an enormous amount of influence over other whites because of the familiarity between the two groups.
Imagine having someone come into your town for a visit and tell you that your wife is unhappy in your marriage. Your friends tell you not to listen to this stranger. They can all but prove to you that your wife is happy Your wife is silent. Most blacks over the age of 25 were relatively silent on civil rights until the tide started to turn. Pretending that things weren't as bad for blacks as Northern whites were describing was pretty simple to do.
The efforts to maintain segregation became a complex, intricate, and expertly executed campaign. The campaign struck people where they would feel it the most. The average Greenwood citizen was made to believe that if they let integration occur that they would lose their children. Their children would marry blacks who, according to the campaign were beast-like illiterates. Many believed that blacks were more sexual than whites. Why did they believe these things? Do you believe the earth is round? How do you know? Have you personally conducted science experiments to prove it or do you just know because that's what someone in authority told you?
Obviously, I don't support or condone racism or people who ignore racism. But if I seek only to distance myself from the "white Southerner" and lump then all in with Byron De La Beckwith, then I'm missing an opportunity to learn an important lesson about human nature. I've forced myself to really ponder whether or not I would have the eyes to see past the rhetoric and see the oppression of the people around me if I was a white middle class person living in Greenwood in the 1960s.
What I know is that Booker Wright provided that opportunity for many Greenwood whites. He did something that removed their blinders. And for that, I am thankful.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Meeting in Meridian
He wouldn't come out of his cell. I traveled all the way there, stayed in a hotel, had a friend take off work to go with me, and he wouldn't come out of his cell.
This was the one variable that I had not prepared myself for. The paperwork was processed. We went through the crazy security process, where the guards were sure to subtly remind us over and over again that they could curtail our visit. In the end, just when I knew we'd jumped through all the hoops, word came down from his floor that he would not see me, he would not come out of his cell.
I don't know if it's a game or fear or maybe something else. I felt stupid. I put myself in a position with him where he had the power. I gave him that and he used it. Maybe he was afraid. He hasn't had a visitor in years. I want to have sympathy for him and to assume the best, but I'm not there yet. I'm angry and sad. I promised myself that no matter how things went that day, that I would let go of this piece of the puzzle, I would stop looking so closely at the murder. I said that when I thought I would see him.
I'm still on the fence about next steps. I'm focusing on other things...working on other chapters...pulling my book together without the answers I was hoping for.
I want to write to him to ask what happened. But I wonder why he hasn't written to me to tell me. I don't want to be in relationship with a mad man, with the man who shattered my family with a blast of pellets. I feel like I started something that I want to stop, but can't. I feel like a fool.
This was the one variable that I had not prepared myself for. The paperwork was processed. We went through the crazy security process, where the guards were sure to subtly remind us over and over again that they could curtail our visit. In the end, just when I knew we'd jumped through all the hoops, word came down from his floor that he would not see me, he would not come out of his cell.
I don't know if it's a game or fear or maybe something else. I felt stupid. I put myself in a position with him where he had the power. I gave him that and he used it. Maybe he was afraid. He hasn't had a visitor in years. I want to have sympathy for him and to assume the best, but I'm not there yet. I'm angry and sad. I promised myself that no matter how things went that day, that I would let go of this piece of the puzzle, I would stop looking so closely at the murder. I said that when I thought I would see him.
I'm still on the fence about next steps. I'm focusing on other things...working on other chapters...pulling my book together without the answers I was hoping for.
I want to write to him to ask what happened. But I wonder why he hasn't written to me to tell me. I don't want to be in relationship with a mad man, with the man who shattered my family with a blast of pellets. I feel like I started something that I want to stop, but can't. I feel like a fool.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Guilt
I keep writing about this meeting that I’m going to have on
Sunday because I feel numb every time I think about it and in my mind, feeling
numb means covering something up. I
think, or I hope, that in these writings I am getting closer to the core of
what’s eating at me.
Cork
started getting arrested when he was 14.
The first time was because he’d stolen pots from a department store and
was caught trying to sell them. He was extremely poor. I often wonder what he was going to buy with that money. Drugs weren’t prevalent in Greenwood back then. I keep thinking that maybe he was just
hungry. Maybe he needed money for food. Maybe he needed help instead of punishment.
Last night I was sitting on a friend’s couch trying to find
the words to describe my apprehension.
Whenever I express concern about going, people usually remind me that
there will be guards, etc. But I’m not
afraid that Cork
will harm me. Deep, deep down I feel a
certainty that when I sit across from him I will be assaulted, not by him, but by a
suffocating sadness.
By the time he was 22 he’d been arrested 18 times, and then
he killed Booker Wright. He went to
jail, then prison, and has been incarcerated for the last 39 years. What kind of a life is that? What bothers me about our visit is that I
don’t really care about him, and I don’t think that anyone else does either. I'm meeting with
because I want to take something from him, his memories.
I will walk in there with my Nordstrom jeans on, and sit
across for him for as long as it pleases me to do so, then I will leave and
never look back. I will step into this
life of loss and tragedy for my own gain.
What will it be like to sit across from someone who hasn’t been able to
spend their time how they want to, or hop in a car and go for a drive on a
whim? It’s like realizing all of a
sudden that I am coated with a putrid, nose-burning, un-concealable stench of privilege. I
wonder if this is what white guilt feels like.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Meeting a Murderer
I wrote this a few weeks ago:
Sometimes writing it like being lost. Not turned around or momentarily confused. It is like being seriously, frighteningly lost, uncertain of which is way is up, how to get out, how far or how deep or wide the thing is that I’m inside of. Sentences don’t do this to me, although, a paragraph has been known to leave me stumped. A chapter can definitely make me feel lost. Sometimes, however, I am lost in an entire book. What once seemed like the perfect layout now feels sophomoric. The story itself can start to feel thin and pointless.
When I’m lost I’m usually also exhausted, physically and mentally. I can’t remember why I started and I just want to stop. For lots of reasons, I can’t.
At some point, I’ll usually remember the last time that I was lost, and the time before that, and the time before that. With relief, I’ll recall that each time I was lost before I didn’t find my way out, the way out found me. Sometimes a person will make a comment in passing about the weather or life in general and I’ll realize that their statement is the answer to my writing challenge. Sometimes someone will read my work and make a simple statement that changes everything. Other times, I just wake up one morning and know what needs to be done.
Today, I am lost and tired. 1% of my brain knows that it won’t last. Change is on the horizon and I will find a way out. 99% of my brain is convinced that there is no way out. Like being locked in a coffin I am anxious, sweating, desperate, and unable to remain calm. I want to move, act, talk, eat, change my clothes, anything, I just have to keep going because the weight of being lost is heaviest when I am still and silent.
I am fried and late and lost.
I wrote the above piece because the ending of my book was lame. In the first half of my book I learn about my grandfather and all about Greenwood , and then the second half of the book is about me trying to uncover the story of his murder. Then the book switches gears and sort of ends. In the final chapter I write my theory about the murder and talk about how I’ll continue to research it. Blah, blah, blah.
Last year I was supposed to go visit Cork , the man who murdered my grandfather (I think). I chickened out. Read this and this. Recently though, out of the fog of confusion I've felt about the ending to my book I realized something.
My book is unfinished because the story is unfinished.
In an excel file I have a list of chapters and the other day I added a new one called “Meeting a Murderer,” then I put a certified letter in the mail to Cork, asking him if I can meet with him.
My book is unfinished because the story is unfinished.
In an excel file I have a list of chapters and the other day I added a new one called “Meeting a Murderer,” then I put a certified letter in the mail to Cork, asking him if I can meet with him.
Part of me doesn’t want to meet him because Cork may say or do something that marks the end of the road. It's like I've been racing down a freeway that doesn't have a speed limit and meeting Cork is a brick wall falling into my path. My work to understand my grandfather’s life and the murky circumstances surrounding his death may stop on a dime with the words of a man who could be insane. Was he hired? Did he do it for no reason or the oldest reason? All of my questions might get answered when I sit across from a murderer.
But pushing that meeting off into infinity is not fair to the readers who will follow my quest. It’s also not fair to Booker Wright.
In October I'm traveling to Mississippi and, if Cork agrees to it, I am meeting with a murderer. Typing that feels profound. I’m setting my plans in stone and this time, I will not turn back.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Untethered
During the past year I've spent a lot of time thinking about family. One of the early ideas that was floated around about the documentary, "Booker's Place: A Misssissippi Story", was focusing the doc on the reason I was searching for Booker Wright in the first place, the answers to which were buried deep in a host of family memories.
In an early draft of my book I wrote:
Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth. Its memories, habits and secrets are woven together to form a thick rope that both anchors us and makes us relevant. Everything we do eventually floats away on aimless currents, but maybe there is something in us, impossible to name or pinpoint that renders us inexplicably unforgettable to family.
"Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth." Looking back I realize that, growing up while feeling so disconnected from family left me with the belief that, if I could construct a sense of family or if I could I find a place to belong, "where everybody knows your name," that I would somehow be complete.
Many of my life choices were governed by a quest to find family. My choice of friends, where to worship, who to marry, what groups to join were all determined by the level of family I hoped to build with strangers. I didn't allow these relationships or choices to happen organically. I was always thinking of the long term, always looking down the line 10 or 20 years into the relationship. I was planning, calculating, even scheming to win hearts and find a place so that I wouldn't have to float, untethered.
At 37, I am finally realizing that this doesn't work. Yes, I need to make choices for myself, but not based on a fear that I will one day be alone. I have to spend a little time in my life, truly being untethered, to prove to myself that I can. It's like I'm running from loneliness, but I always end up lonely because I chose my crowd for the wrong reasons. I heard someone say once that, in life, it's just me, God, and the dirt. I'm trying on that life for awhile.
In an early draft of my book I wrote:
Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth. Its memories, habits and secrets are woven together to form a thick rope that both anchors us and makes us relevant. Everything we do eventually floats away on aimless currents, but maybe there is something in us, impossible to name or pinpoint that renders us inexplicably unforgettable to family.
"Family is the cord that keeps us tethered to the earth." Looking back I realize that, growing up while feeling so disconnected from family left me with the belief that, if I could construct a sense of family or if I could I find a place to belong, "where everybody knows your name," that I would somehow be complete.
Many of my life choices were governed by a quest to find family. My choice of friends, where to worship, who to marry, what groups to join were all determined by the level of family I hoped to build with strangers. I didn't allow these relationships or choices to happen organically. I was always thinking of the long term, always looking down the line 10 or 20 years into the relationship. I was planning, calculating, even scheming to win hearts and find a place so that I wouldn't have to float, untethered.
At 37, I am finally realizing that this doesn't work. Yes, I need to make choices for myself, but not based on a fear that I will one day be alone. I have to spend a little time in my life, truly being untethered, to prove to myself that I can. It's like I'm running from loneliness, but I always end up lonely because I chose my crowd for the wrong reasons. I heard someone say once that, in life, it's just me, God, and the dirt. I'm trying on that life for awhile.
Monday, August 13, 2012
No More Homeschooling
I'm not homeschooling anymore. Just typing that was like lifting the world off of my shoulders and watching it crash into the ground. An Atlas shrug. I can list a thousand reasons why I stopped, but then it would be like I was trying to justify my decision to you. Suffice it say, it was a decision long in the making. It was painful.
Homeschooling was more than a school choice, it was a way of life. It was the sound of feet pounding through my house all day. It was spontaneous hugs, kisses, and cuddles. Now, it's gone. Of course, my kids aren't gone. I still get to have them with me in the afternoons. I enjoy them even more because now, I get to miss them.
Maybe they'll go to school for one year or ten. I don't know. What I do know is that I feel better. Slower, refreshed, and less like the entire future of my children's lives is resting on how I spend every moment of every day. It turns out that I'm not the mom I thought I was. I strove to be her, but she was always just beyond my grasp. I really am this other mom. A mom who wants a career. A mom who can say good-bye to her kids every morning.
I have to be honest and authentic or I will be crazy. So, here I am, doing what I love to do, doing what I have dreamed of doing - I am writing, and the only sound in the house is the whirring water that's racing in circles inside of my dishwasher. I miss my children, but not enough to bring them back home, yet. Which mom am I, again? Oh, yeah, I'm the happy one.
Homeschooling was more than a school choice, it was a way of life. It was the sound of feet pounding through my house all day. It was spontaneous hugs, kisses, and cuddles. Now, it's gone. Of course, my kids aren't gone. I still get to have them with me in the afternoons. I enjoy them even more because now, I get to miss them.
Maybe they'll go to school for one year or ten. I don't know. What I do know is that I feel better. Slower, refreshed, and less like the entire future of my children's lives is resting on how I spend every moment of every day. It turns out that I'm not the mom I thought I was. I strove to be her, but she was always just beyond my grasp. I really am this other mom. A mom who wants a career. A mom who can say good-bye to her kids every morning.
I have to be honest and authentic or I will be crazy. So, here I am, doing what I love to do, doing what I have dreamed of doing - I am writing, and the only sound in the house is the whirring water that's racing in circles inside of my dishwasher. I miss my children, but not enough to bring them back home, yet. Which mom am I, again? Oh, yeah, I'm the happy one.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Literacy
My son was recently diagnosed with dyslexia. This came after I'd spent years homeschooling him and trying every reading method that I could get my hands on. At first I thought the problem was him, that he wasn't trying hard enough because he preferred to play with his toys than to do school with mommy. Then, I thought it was me, and that I was just not a good enough teacher. Finally, I became convinced that I just needed to find the right curriculum.
One day last year, we were doing school and it was like I was seeing him for the first time. Something was wrong and it wasn't me, it wasn't him, and it wasn't the curriculum. He could read on grade level, and he had excellent comprehension, but it was devastatingly difficult for him. To read an entire paragraph he had to hit himself, pinch himself, and would usually cry out, but only after first exhibiting reluctance and anger.
In my house, dyslexia looks like a bad little boy. It looks like ADD. It does not look like a bonafide disorder. When it was first recommended to me that I take him in to get tested for dyslexia, I was taken aback to discover that neither my insurance, or our local school district, recognized it as its own individual disorder. We would have to pay out of pocket to save our son from illiteracy.
Thankfully, we can. We're not rich, but we have investments and excellent credit. We could lose our house paying for his treatments, but we can still pay. For some families, the cost may as well be in the millions as opposed to the thousands. Some families would never, ever be able to come up with the hourly rate required to get their children the help that they need.
I tend to feel sorry for myself. When bad things happen, I often look to the sky and wonder what I've done to deserve the most recent calamity that's come into my life. The older I get, the more that I realize it's not all about me. Nevertheless, when my son received his diagnosis I fell into a sad and fear-filled silence. For days I wanted to ask why this had happened to my boy. Why was such a sweet, smart child afflicted with a disorder that makes most people believe that they're dumb.
As I was having these thoughts, I was also thinking about the best way to build the board for Booker's Place, the new non-profit that I'm planning to launch this year, with the help of Lynn Roer from Ogilvy and Mather.
There are two grown men in my family who cannot read. Booker was also illiterate, that makes three (one of them is a blood relative of Booker's). There are some who believe that dyslexia is genetic. I have to wonder if it runs in my family? I read here that African-American dyslexics are more likely to be misdiagnosed as being mildly mentally disabled than their white counterparts.
Are dyslexics whose skin is a little darker and whose families have little money, less likely to get a proper diagnosis? The doctor who diagnosed my son charged $190 an hour. They said there was a chance insurance may not cover it. The testing lasted four hours. How many families can afford that?
The timing of all of this - getting the diagnosis while starting Booker's Place, has made me wonder if I can incorporate dyslexia treatment into the free services we provide. School supplies are great and necessary, we will still do that. Learning to read, in this society however, is like learning to breathe. It's all but impossible to thrive without it.
I am finding myself having another wildest dream. What if I could hire a dyslexia specialist or a reading specialist to work in a city and travel between Booker's Place locations, providing specialized reading programs to underprivileged kids? Maybe they could even make house calls. It would be really expensive, but it would change the world, one struggling reader at a time. It may also be what Booker Wright would do.
One day last year, we were doing school and it was like I was seeing him for the first time. Something was wrong and it wasn't me, it wasn't him, and it wasn't the curriculum. He could read on grade level, and he had excellent comprehension, but it was devastatingly difficult for him. To read an entire paragraph he had to hit himself, pinch himself, and would usually cry out, but only after first exhibiting reluctance and anger.
In my house, dyslexia looks like a bad little boy. It looks like ADD. It does not look like a bonafide disorder. When it was first recommended to me that I take him in to get tested for dyslexia, I was taken aback to discover that neither my insurance, or our local school district, recognized it as its own individual disorder. We would have to pay out of pocket to save our son from illiteracy.
Thankfully, we can. We're not rich, but we have investments and excellent credit. We could lose our house paying for his treatments, but we can still pay. For some families, the cost may as well be in the millions as opposed to the thousands. Some families would never, ever be able to come up with the hourly rate required to get their children the help that they need.
I tend to feel sorry for myself. When bad things happen, I often look to the sky and wonder what I've done to deserve the most recent calamity that's come into my life. The older I get, the more that I realize it's not all about me. Nevertheless, when my son received his diagnosis I fell into a sad and fear-filled silence. For days I wanted to ask why this had happened to my boy. Why was such a sweet, smart child afflicted with a disorder that makes most people believe that they're dumb.
As I was having these thoughts, I was also thinking about the best way to build the board for Booker's Place, the new non-profit that I'm planning to launch this year, with the help of Lynn Roer from Ogilvy and Mather.
There are two grown men in my family who cannot read. Booker was also illiterate, that makes three (one of them is a blood relative of Booker's). There are some who believe that dyslexia is genetic. I have to wonder if it runs in my family? I read here that African-American dyslexics are more likely to be misdiagnosed as being mildly mentally disabled than their white counterparts.
Are dyslexics whose skin is a little darker and whose families have little money, less likely to get a proper diagnosis? The doctor who diagnosed my son charged $190 an hour. They said there was a chance insurance may not cover it. The testing lasted four hours. How many families can afford that?
The timing of all of this - getting the diagnosis while starting Booker's Place, has made me wonder if I can incorporate dyslexia treatment into the free services we provide. School supplies are great and necessary, we will still do that. Learning to read, in this society however, is like learning to breathe. It's all but impossible to thrive without it.
I am finding myself having another wildest dream. What if I could hire a dyslexia specialist or a reading specialist to work in a city and travel between Booker's Place locations, providing specialized reading programs to underprivileged kids? Maybe they could even make house calls. It would be really expensive, but it would change the world, one struggling reader at a time. It may also be what Booker Wright would do.
Monday, July 30, 2012
My Boy
I come from a broken family. Usually when people use the phrase "broken family" they are referring to a family where the parents are divorced. My parents separated when I was 15 however, when I say that I come from a broken family I mean that I come from broken people.
It's always hard for me, incredibly hard, to write about the failings of my parents. Like I talked about in this post, now that I am a mother myself I have to constantly reconcile the mother I dreamed I'd be with the mother I really am. It's humbling. Parenting is humbling.
My parents' problems always seemed obvious to me. There were three kids in my family and none of us was planned. My parents kind of raised us that way - unplanned, shooting from the hip. They abused substances, forgot about us, and got lost in their own problems. I've spent countless hours on the couches of psychologists trying to work through the quagmire of who I am because of the pain that my parents gifted me with. At least, that's what I used to believe. The simple truth is that I blamed them for what I didn't like about myself.
One of the ideas I've explored a lot here in this blog space, is the idea that the members of my family wear a "mark" because we're from Greenwood. There is a heritage of slavery that haunts us. Greenwood was slave country, and we are her descendants.
Years ago, before that idea had occurred to me, I thought I had all the answers. In my arrogance, I believed that I could construct the perfect family in the same way that I could mix together and bake the perfect cake. I met a man who didn't drink, had a stable job, and seemed to be the perfect puzzle piece to build my ideal family on. He was the cornerstone, and we were both the builders. We had two sons. I read to them, I home schooled them, took them to the park, and was convinced that my love would be all that they'd need to be perfectly, adorably happy. I was wrong.
I always thought that I was sad as a girl because I had absent, selfish parents. Then, I met my son. He is sad. He cries a lot and talks often about how much he hates himself. He is seven years-old. I play with him, read books to him, take him to all types of doctors, and sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I resent it all. He reminds me so much of myself at that age. I was 11 the first time I contemplated committing suicide. I always thought that particular detail was a reflection of the terrible, oh, so awful home life I came from.
In the life I have today, I easily spend 20 hours a week trying to save my son. I take him to specialists, read books on kids that are "different", and talk to other moms. Every day it feels like the two of us are on a course marked for certain destruction. It's a game. People are hiding where I cannot see them. They watch us and laugh at us as we try to get off, because there is no "off." There is only a mother trying desperately to find the right pill, the right program, the right diagnosis, the right anything.
Sometimes, he smiles at me. He truly is the most beautiful boy in the world (although he may be tied with his brother). He has caramel-colored skin that he hates because it's not white. He is tall and most people think he's three years older than he actually is. I know that one day when he's a man he will love being tall. For now, though, it's like a cross to bear. People look at him and wonder why he can't do more. Why is he crying? Why is he screaming?
As I deal with him, trying to nurture and love without getting tapped out, his father lingers in the background, already talking about military school. I picked him because I thought he'd be the perfect father. But, I also thought that I would be the perfect mother.
Some days, I am painfully aware of the fact that I'm the only one who "gets" my son. Others hear rage, I hear a panic attack coming on. I perceive the tears behind the behavior. Sometimes, I wish I could permanently tie him to me to help him navigate every situation or at a minimum, I want to construct a world in which he would experience no pain, a world in which everyone would "get" him.
Along with all of this, I have to wonder two things: 1) Is he like this because I am like my parents? Or 2) were my parents normal and all of my crap was my own fault because I was messed up biochemically or something?
Either answer kind of sucks. If answer 1 is the truth, then does that make me a terrible mother? If 2 is true, then I've spent all of these years blaming innocents for my own loneliness.
I've made some of the most critical choices in my life because I wanted to build the perfect family. I don't have the perfect family. I have a broken family and I don't know what to do about it.
It's always hard for me, incredibly hard, to write about the failings of my parents. Like I talked about in this post, now that I am a mother myself I have to constantly reconcile the mother I dreamed I'd be with the mother I really am. It's humbling. Parenting is humbling.
My parents' problems always seemed obvious to me. There were three kids in my family and none of us was planned. My parents kind of raised us that way - unplanned, shooting from the hip. They abused substances, forgot about us, and got lost in their own problems. I've spent countless hours on the couches of psychologists trying to work through the quagmire of who I am because of the pain that my parents gifted me with. At least, that's what I used to believe. The simple truth is that I blamed them for what I didn't like about myself.
One of the ideas I've explored a lot here in this blog space, is the idea that the members of my family wear a "mark" because we're from Greenwood. There is a heritage of slavery that haunts us. Greenwood was slave country, and we are her descendants.
Years ago, before that idea had occurred to me, I thought I had all the answers. In my arrogance, I believed that I could construct the perfect family in the same way that I could mix together and bake the perfect cake. I met a man who didn't drink, had a stable job, and seemed to be the perfect puzzle piece to build my ideal family on. He was the cornerstone, and we were both the builders. We had two sons. I read to them, I home schooled them, took them to the park, and was convinced that my love would be all that they'd need to be perfectly, adorably happy. I was wrong.
I always thought that I was sad as a girl because I had absent, selfish parents. Then, I met my son. He is sad. He cries a lot and talks often about how much he hates himself. He is seven years-old. I play with him, read books to him, take him to all types of doctors, and sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I resent it all. He reminds me so much of myself at that age. I was 11 the first time I contemplated committing suicide. I always thought that particular detail was a reflection of the terrible, oh, so awful home life I came from.
In the life I have today, I easily spend 20 hours a week trying to save my son. I take him to specialists, read books on kids that are "different", and talk to other moms. Every day it feels like the two of us are on a course marked for certain destruction. It's a game. People are hiding where I cannot see them. They watch us and laugh at us as we try to get off, because there is no "off." There is only a mother trying desperately to find the right pill, the right program, the right diagnosis, the right anything.
Sometimes, he smiles at me. He truly is the most beautiful boy in the world (although he may be tied with his brother). He has caramel-colored skin that he hates because it's not white. He is tall and most people think he's three years older than he actually is. I know that one day when he's a man he will love being tall. For now, though, it's like a cross to bear. People look at him and wonder why he can't do more. Why is he crying? Why is he screaming?
As I deal with him, trying to nurture and love without getting tapped out, his father lingers in the background, already talking about military school. I picked him because I thought he'd be the perfect father. But, I also thought that I would be the perfect mother.
Some days, I am painfully aware of the fact that I'm the only one who "gets" my son. Others hear rage, I hear a panic attack coming on. I perceive the tears behind the behavior. Sometimes, I wish I could permanently tie him to me to help him navigate every situation or at a minimum, I want to construct a world in which he would experience no pain, a world in which everyone would "get" him.
Along with all of this, I have to wonder two things: 1) Is he like this because I am like my parents? Or 2) were my parents normal and all of my crap was my own fault because I was messed up biochemically or something?
Either answer kind of sucks. If answer 1 is the truth, then does that make me a terrible mother? If 2 is true, then I've spent all of these years blaming innocents for my own loneliness.
I've made some of the most critical choices in my life because I wanted to build the perfect family. I don't have the perfect family. I have a broken family and I don't know what to do about it.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Branded
When I was a girl, I dreamed of being a writer. In middle school, I started reading Sweet Valley High books and other teen romance novels. In my early teens, I read E.L. Doctorow, Pat Conroy, John Irving, Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. In my late teens, I painfully made my way through Shakespeare and Faulkner, all the while imagining that one day I'd be sitting at a desk writing deep, complicated tales that would both reveal and inform the American way of life.
I didn't write those tales. Actually, I didn't finish those tales Every laptop and every computer I've ever owned contains dusty hard drives imprinted with half-written stories that are trapped in an eternal, peaceful sleep. When it comes to fiction, I'm just not a finisher. During those blurry days when I started and restarted my computerized masterpieces, I was using napkins, scratch paper, and the backs of grocery lists to jot down my feelings. Unbeknownst to me, where I was failing at fiction, I was succeeding at non-fiction.
Around this time I discovered the story of Booker Wright, and I made a choice that would change my life. I decided to record, here on this blog, the steps I took to uncover his story and my efforts to grasp his soul. Some of my earlier posts are lame. I'll be the first to say that. You can see me struggling to find my way. At first, I thought that no one would ever read my blog, so I wrote hurtful things about my family, revealing with reckless detail, all of their earthly failures.
In the summer of 2011, I made a documentary about my grandfather, called Booker's Place: A Mississippi Story. After our first shoot, the filmmakers went back to their work spaces and started trying to pull together a movie. I went into a corner and started blogging about everything. Every feeling, every emotion, every moment of bliss and pain, I recorded here.
My computers tend to die sudden deaths, and I can't keep up with printed copies. I've lost every story I wrote as a young girl. That's why I posted here. I was afraid that if I collected my random thoughts anyplace else that, one day, they'd be gone, accidentally thrown away or trapped in a computer that'd been murdered by the latest virus. So, I blogged. Blogging helped me to process, and it simply made me feel better.
At the time, the only "visitors" to my blog were poor souls from the Ukraine who'd typed in the wrong URL. Then, one day the producer called and said, "Everybody in NY loves you." He meant everyone at his agency who was working on the film. I said, "Why?" He said, "They've read your blog."
I felt like someone had just said, "Hey, yesterday, when you were showering, the window was open and everybody on 46th St. and 11th Avenue was watching." It was weird. I went back and read some of my earlier posts, the ones where I talked about which members of my family couldn't hold down jobs and which ones would go on shopping sprees and then not have enough money to pay their bills. I did some quick deleting.
Since then, I've tried really, really, really hard to keep writing with the same mission I had at first. I write to escape, to work out my feelings, to make sense of what stalks my soul, and to record, so that in 30 years I can go back and accurately remember.
But something has been lost. Sometimes, I feel like I'm changing my clothes with eyes on me. I wear my best undergarments, turn my body in a way to highlight my toned parts, but hide the flabby ones. I have about 60 blog drafts here that I chose not to post because I didn't want to throw anyone under the bus or make anyone angry. In some ways, I'm a brand now. When I start to write I catch myself wondering if the writing will enhance or hurt my brand. I wonder if it will make the people who've invested in me happy or angry. Will it help the movie? Will it hurt my book?
My soul lives here. I stamp myself onto this blog space. Just now, I started to type, "I stamp myself onto this blog space, because..." but nothing came after "because." I don't know why I leave myself here, I just do.
There are things about this project that I need to work out. I've seen my counselor about them, talked to girlfriends about them, and even started several pen to paper writings about them. But for some reason, at least for now, I only seem to be able to get to "the end" of my conflicted emotional ropes when I am here, sitting in a coffee shop, shutting out the conversations around me, and staring at this empty white space, the one that invites me to pour it all out - the goopey, confusing stuff that sloshes around inside me.
I've learned a lot about myself through this process, most of it hasn't been too beautiful. I'm working on a book about this journey and I've had to dive deep into my past. Some shameful truths have come to the surface and I want to run from them. Lately, I've been spending a lot of time in my bed staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, and trying to shut out who I am. It's not working, so I'm switching gears.
I'm really hopeful that if I can write through some of this, that I can get to the other side of the murkiness and once again feel the sun shining on my face. Some people will think I'm using this platform to harm. What I've learned about those people is that nothing I say makes any difference, they'll assume the worst about me, anyway. Blogs are free, go get your own.
I'm really hopeful that if I can write through some of this, that I can get to the other side of the murkiness and once again feel the sun shining on my face. Some people will think I'm using this platform to harm. What I've learned about those people is that nothing I say makes any difference, they'll assume the worst about me, anyway. Blogs are free, go get your own.
I'm starting a "hard truths" series. Hopefully, I can use this space to face myself.
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