That Time I Did Blackface

When I was on social media, I disclosed this episode... and I'll add more information and introspection on it here... AND I'll say that it's part and parcel to something I experienced this weekend at the Austin Powwow and American Indian Heritage Festival.

Also, when I was on social media, I had a LOT of regular blog readers. It's fallen off to a very small number, and I know that if I keep posting soapbox issues, it might be tiring and you folks might be tempted to catch up on something less... whatever this is. However, this is something that's true about me and I can't ignore it: I believe in full human rights and justice for everyone, to a person. For every person from any nationality or of any ethnicity. For gay, trans, and folks who defy categorization. For victims. For prisoners. For people I disagree with. For fat people. For people who are in situations through no fault of their own AND as a result of their own choices. For everyone.

Especially when I see my complicity in injury or oppression, in upholding systems that have marginalized others, I want to speak up. I need to confess so that no one will think I don't know what I've done, or that I am not deeply sorry. And I need people who have developed understandably low expectations of white ladies like myself to have a bit of hope to cling to... not because of anything I am doing, but because of these kids. These kids give me a needed respite to my cynicism, and it is my sincere desire that the affect of these stories will be the same for you.

First. Here are two pictures for you.

The first is from 1978, at the present-day Ka-Do-Ha Indian Village Museum in Murfreesboro, Arkansas. The second is from 1979, at the Cherokee Heritage Center in Park Hill, Oklahoma. Obviously, my parents wanted us to learn about the Native American history or we wouldn't have visited the sites. VERY often, we were the only children at places like these. We had no ill intent. But that doesn't change the fact that in our attempt to "embody" the culture we were supposedly respecting, we appropriated stereotypes in a way that is harmful. It further perpetuates those stereotypes, and it personally hurts individuals. I apologize for my ignorance, and for any damage my actions caused. I pledge to keep learning and keep doing better.

The above pictures are the ones that popped into my head as we were walking through the market at the powwow this weekend. Many of the sellers were Native Americans, and Mal saw something that caught his eye. There were a couple of rows of slightly-smaller-than-life-size ceramic partridges. They were each painted white with lovely designs on their backs. Each one was different. The seller told me that her son made all of them, as well as canteens and other pieces, with no pattern... just whatever came to him while he was designing.

Mal asked me to take a picture. In the past, I can see myself taking a picture of the neatly-arranged flasks, then using it as wall art. But because of what other populations have taught me, I said, "It IS beautiful. But if you think that art is lovely, and you want to look at it, then you need to buy it." That meant nothing to Malcolm in the moment, I'm sure. I could have just said, "No." But it's part of a bigger picture that I'm trying to paint for him. Eventually, hopefully, the whole thing will click into place into his worldview.

We did buy a partridge. I got it for D, whose birthday was Saturday, and who adores birds. Incidentally, here's a picture I took a decade ago when I took my own now-adult child to the Cherokee Heritage Center.

The guide's name is Robert, and he patiently showed D (we were the only people under the age of 60 on the tour) how to weave, play stickball, shoot a rabbit with a blow gun, and how to make an arrowhead out of an antler. Also, he told us that in the early 1800s, the literacy rate of the Cherokees was higher than their white neighbors'.

I want to tell you something about D: D was not raised by any kind of "woke" parents. I have read blog posts from this same time frame, and I cringe now at the thoughts I used to have. Yet somehow, D became this incredibly empathetic, conscientious human being all because that's just who D is. In fact, much of the growth I've sustained over the past few years are because D has dragged me into the light through a strong will and influence. 

We've had plenty of times when D has called me out for, say, enjoying a song on the radio that contained a racial slur. I didn't buy it, but came home and did my own research... and realized that, dang, that song was out.

So if that's the person D is, maybe, just maybe, Mal will be, too? And he'll even have a head start? I'm going to hope that, and maybe you can hope it, too.

Now we'll get to what I wish had been mere clickbait, but which was, in fact, an actual event in my life. As I mentioned, the Native American poses were from when I was 6 and 7 years old. Let's move forward to 1987, when I was 15 years old.

My high school had an annual lip synch contest. Sophomore year, my favorite group was The Pointer Sisters. I'd been in love with their song "Neutron Dance" ever since it had been released. I remember my friend Pam and me dancing around my house to it, and her slipping and injuring herself in the kitchen.

I wrangled two friends, both white like I am, into doing this with me. So I'm in the "it has to be realistic" camp that I see now is ridiculous, but I also am skeptical when contemporaries of mine like Seth Meyers say "everyone knows this isn't appropriate." Adolescent me in northwest Arkansas in the late '80s had maybe a passing awareness of minstrelsy (the only "Jazz Singer" I knew was Neil Diamond). Or Jim Crow. Or any of the baggage that is wrapped up in black face. I wish I'd known. I wish I'd made a better decision.

As I've thought about it over the years, I can't help but wonder what the grown-ups in the room were thinking. Did any of them realize it was a bad idea? If they didn't, why wouldn't they tell me? I was quite open about our plans. We had a dress rehearsal, and I made sure that everyone knew we would be actual black folks the next day. The only feedback I got was that I needed to wear a better bra because my chest was too bouncy for a wholesome high school program.

The morning of the lip synch contest, I left the house looking like this, because I had classes before the program.

I think my distinctly uncool high school self was trying to approximate the style on the "Break Out" album as best I could. Remember it? (Also, does the shirt say "Dance" on it in puffy paint? I believe that it does.)

White shirt tied at the waist, check. Boot things, check (actually, they were super-high-top fold-down Chuck Taylors, and my favorite article of clothing. I wore them to a cowboy thing in college, because I've never owned a pair of actual boots until I recently got some snow Crocs). Curly hair, check... it was the late '80s. Layers, not really but I put on a bandana, so half-check? Dark hose so you couldn't see my Caucasian legs? Sigh. Check.

My mom took this picture. She knew I was going to color my arms and face. If she'd known it was offensive, she, of all people, would have set me straight. If there's one thing my mom can't abide, it's people getting their feelings hurt. And swearing.

Do you know how I colored my face and arms? With body paint. I bought it at a Fort Smith costume store. It was basically a tongue depressor that had been coated with this brown "paint" that was dry until you ran the stick under water. Then you could just rub it across your skin, and the color would transfer. I'm sure I talked about the owner about our "cool" plans. That person didn't say anything negative about it, either.

And we danced. We Neutron Danced. We got second place, and I felt robbed.

Then.

Someone complained.

There were three black kids that I distinctly remember from high school; a brother and a sister, and a girl who lived around the corner from me. The neighbor girl went to someone at the school and complained that we'd done the performance in black face. I don't remember how I heard about it. But sadly, here's what I took away from it, since no one told me differently: She liked a guy I had dated the summer before, and she was just trying to get me in trouble out of cattiness.

Once again, I wonder how the adults in charge decided to handle this? I was given no context as to why someone might be upset by what we did ("I ADMIRE them! I want to BE them! That's what we did!" was my refrain, and one that continues to be used by people who are unwilling to examine their actions and attitudes... which was definitely me at 15). 

It's interesting that I've never seen a photo from that performance. It's like even the yearbook photographer knew "These are never going to see the light of day." Oh, the next year, I won the lip synch contest when a friend and I did "Let Go" by Cheap Trick. I dressed up as a man. Until a few years ago, I probably would have insisted that being as "authentic" to The Pointer Sisters as I could was the exact same as dressing "drag" as whichever one of the Cheap Trick dudes I was. 

But regardless of my intent, the impact of my action was that at least one person got hurt, and that I unwittingly contributed to a long history of caricaturizing people of color. I had taken on the easiest and most shallow facet of blackness to mimic, and had not thought of the fact that my classmates didn't get to shower after the ceremony and go back to a position of majority and privilege.

I won't use her name, but on the off chance that the young woman who complained ever reads this, I am deeply sorry. In my self-obsessed outlook, I took your hurt and centered myself. I minimized your complaint to absolve myself of any guilt or need to do emotional labor. I owed you an apology. I owed everyone an apology. I should have gotten up at the next assembly and confessed, repented, and maybe taught a history lesson that just was not covered in our classrooms. You were right. I'm sorry if you didn't feel validated in your concern. I wish we could have sat down and you confront me, if you'd wanted to. You deserved better. 

How does this inform my life today? Well, at least one of my children would never appropriate anything. In fact, when I brought home a shirt with an alebrijes on it as a souvenir for my older child, I had to report that I'd gotten it at the "Discover Mexico" visitor's center, so the sale of it was benefiting a local economy (albeit a robust tourist one) in Mexico. But if the other is tempted, we will talk about it and educate him as to why it's not appropriate.

Although I am totally and fully responsible for my choices, even as a teen, I do wish that the grown-ups in my orbit had done a few things that could have helped everyone. So I will use that as a blueprint in case I ever need to intervene in such a situation:

1) I will try to keep anyone, especially minors, in my charge from committing blatantly offensive and needless acts.

2) If there is a complaint, in relaying it to the offending party, I will use grace but also inform them why their actions were problematic. If I don't know, I'll do the research and learn why on my own, without forcing the offended party to justify their hurt.

3) I will seek as much input on how to handle the problem as the offended party wants to provide.

4) I will strongly suggest that the offending party respond in some reparative way, even if it takes a while for them to figure out why, and then how.

Okay, that's it. Gormless but trying. Your continued patience is appreciated.

Random. R-r-r-rrrandom

I keep making plans to attend alt school open houses, then when they get close, find reasons not to go. I'm sure not the least of these reasons is that tuition even for a part-time unschool-y place would finance a REALLY NICE and a couple of plenty good vacations per year. So maybe we'll just keep homeschooling. I need to find a good source for friends for Mal, though. At this age, D already had a core group of kids we knew would be homeschooling, so when we started a co-op, we already knew a lot of families.

Then again, I'm NOT doing a co-op again, and so if I want Mal to have that same sort of social stability, I'm going to have to pay for it. There are unschooling meetups, but we went to several when he was smaller, specifically preschool groups, and it was obvious that some people had been meeting for a long time, and we'd often not talk to anyone else the whole time we were there.

Besides that... we took a one-off "art class" recently at Mess-Maker Studios. It's a great place, and the facilitator doesn't make the kids do anything; she "strews" and lets them do whatever moves them. Still, Mal flitted from the sensory stuff to three seconds of painting, to playing with toys, and announced it was time to go half an hour into a 1.5 hour session. He WAS the only kid who showed up (it was an afternoon class rather than a morning one, which was packed, but... mornings), and he DID end up finding stuff to do for another thirty minutes while I talked to the owner.

But I am not certain that even in a year and a half, we could commit to a 5-hour day, even in a really laid-back, choose-your-own-adventure kind of place.

In other news: Tonight, we took advantage of a $4.11 per serving cheese fondue at Melting Pot. Mal and I got there before James, who got hung up in traffic. As we sat in the lobby waiting, Mal was obsessed with the real actual oil candle on the table in front of the bench. He was waving his hand over it to see the flame flicker, and having one of his Sonic toys fly over it. After observing how the flame really wavered when he swung his hand pretty hard in the air above it, he thought for a minute and blew lightly. It blew the candle all the way out.

"We were supposed to bring our lighter so we could light a candle if it goes out!" Mal told me.

I said I didn't have a lighter, and they'd just have to light it again later.

Mal looked panicked, and said, "But I don't want to go to jail!"

As we were seated, I told the host that Mal had blown out their candle, but really didn't want to go to jail. She said, "It's a first offense, so we won't press charges."

Later, after we'd had our cheese course (Mal enjoyed playing but ate only some bread and green apples; he didn't even try the cheese), we ordered dessert. Mal told the server he'd like marshmallows, and when she brought the trays out, she had made a special (non-communal) one for Mal and pointed out the graham-cracker-covered marshmallow and the Oreo-covered marshmallow.

As she went on to say what everything else was, Mal interrupted loudly, "Excuse me! Sir! I'd like plain marshmallows, please." She brought him 4.

This weekend, I was thinking about a lot of the things that I'm sorry for in my life. Here are a few:
1) I'm sorry I ever believed the lie that parents have to win the battle of wills against their kids, especially when they're small, so it sets the precedence of who's boss.
2) I'm sorry I used to think that there were certain bodies that could "get away" with wearing certain articles of clothing, and others to which the clothes would be off-limits.
3) I am sorry I never really listened to my next-door neighbor's dad practice guitar because I thought he was going to hell for playing an instrument in church.
4) I'm sorry I was so ignorant that I didn't know the pain it would cause when I did the "Pointer Sisters" lip synch in our high school contest in 1987/88, when I was 15. And I'm very sorry that when a black girl, a neighbor of mine, complained, that the school didn't bring us all together to talk about it. It didn't matter that I LOVED the Pointer Sisters, or that I meant it as a tribute, or that I was just trying to be as realistic as possible, or that I didn't even know the history. I needed to learn. I needed for her to be able to look me in the face and say, "You hurt me. This is wrong." And I needed to be held accountable for finding out why.
5) I am sorry I ever intentionally lost weight.
6) I'm sorry I never offered to mow the yard or wash the cars or do jobs that weren't "mine" when I was in high school.
7) I'm kind of sorry I got an undergraduate degree; not only in theater, but at all. Not sure what else I might have done with my time (and parents' money), but it couldn't have been MORE wasted.
8) I'm sorry for all of the things I missed out on because I was "busy" trying to make some guy like me. I'm sorry I ever tried to date at all before I turned 30, although I'm glad I had D.
9) I'm sorry for any rumor I've ever listened to without speaking up. Same goes for racist or otherwise abusive jokes.
10) I'm sorry for any aggressive beliefs I've held that I believed were justified by the Bible but that did harm to other people and, ironically, the Gospel. I'm growing to hate the term "sincerely-held religious beliefs" because it sounds so innocuous, but I see how it's weaponized. It's heresy.
11) I am so sorry for people I hurt when I was hurting. There's a list, and I think about them often, and I am learning to sit in the sorrow and discomfort, because my "bent" is to try to fix things... even when there's no fix.

I've been thinking about things for which I'm sorry because of freaking Joe Biden, who might/might not be running for President in 2020. For posterity's sake (because sometimes I read decades-old blog posts and don't get the pop references), several women have accused him of approaching them physically in a way that made them uncomfortable. He's gone out of his way to "apologize" by saying social norms have changed, and that he will never apologize for his intentions, and that he always tried to build a human connection.

But, golly, Joe, all you need to do it take responsibility for your actions. Tell the truth: You never thought about how your physical advances might be taken by women because it's just not a thing you think about. It doesn't matter if "society" taught you not to worry about that kind of thing... The fact that it never occurred to you that someone might not like being hugged or kissed or having their shoulders rubbed shows, first and foremost, male privilege/assumption of space/rights to others' bodies, etc. Acknowledge that. Apologize for hurting people. Stop centering yourself by talking about intentions. That's not the point here. If someone accidentally steps on my toes in a crowded place, it's still appropriate for them to apologize. You're more culpable than that, so you owe it to these ladies.

If you asked me, and I rarely get political on here, but this kind of crap is a big reason I'm super over the old white guy President. We need someone with a different outlook on life. Not because old white guys necessarily are compromised or evil or anything like that; just the inability to conceive that your default way of thinking might be able to be improved upon is a liability, as far as I'm concerned. Let's try something different, can we please?

Taking another turn: We were supposed to get our new just-weaned pigeons yesterday, but the supplier caught a cold, so we're waiting one more week.

Mal's awake, so that's it for now. Enjoy your week, internets!

Birthday wishes and a bit of looking back

Happy birthday, D!

I won't say the trite things like "I can't believe you're 17" or "It all happened so fast," mostly because I CAN believe it, and it happened in exactly 17 years. I've been uploading pictures to the cloud from old back-up thumb drives, and have relived so much of your life through visual memories in the past few days. And I have some thoughts. (surprise, surprise)

Man, I've loved being your mom. Most of my best memories involve you, even if you don't remember them yourself. The pictures bear out those times. But they also testify quietly to some things you CAN'T see in the pictures. Every parent, every person, has things in their life that they would like to go back and tweak. I don't spend too much time worrying about those things. But there are several overreaching aspects of your childhood, and of being your mom, that I regret significantly and wish I had not done/could undo/had done better. They are:

1) Authoritarian parenting. I didn't ever think about whether there was another way when you were a kid. It was all I'd been exposed to, and so it was easy to fall into that. And when telling you what to do didn't work, I would tell you what to do again... either LOUDER or just with more words. Over and over again. And I hate that. I desperately wish that when you'd been born, I'd seen our relationship as more of a partnership than a top-down enterprise. I always tried to respect your opinion and personhood, but it was always with the idea that I was in charge. I am sorry. I'm sorry it took me until you were a teenager to realize that there was another way. 

2) Lack of empathy when you were genuinely in need. There have been times in your life when I've been incredibly impatient with you when you expressed exhaustion and frustration at times that were inconvenient to me. When I look back on them, I can think of only a few reasons I reacted in such an ugly manner.

The first is that, when I've recognized that you absolutely COULD do something (like math when you were 6, or riding a bike a few miles when you were 11), I thought pushing you to complete it using whatever means necessary would eventually help you see that you were capable, too. How stupid. That doesn't work for me; why would I think it would work for someone else?

The second is that, in some situations when you were ready just to give up, I didn't have an out or know what else to do. So I reacted in my own stress and inability to your stress and inability.

The final one is that, in times when I've been extremely needy and requiring the most support, I have found that same need in others to be ugly. So maybe I was kind of mad that you needed emotional support when I didn't feel like I had any to spare? 

Regardless, I'm so sorry. I wish I'd stopped everything every time and sat with you to figure out a way we could work it out together. The "reasons" I've thought of aren't an excuse, and I regret it deeply.

3) Related to the above, but encompassing a lot more: I wish that the day I filed for divorce, I'd started the habit of waking up every morning and looking at myself in the mirror and reminding myself, "You're the adult. You're doing what you need to do. Your feelings will save for later; take care of D's." I was so focused on my own hurt for a good year and a half after the divorce that I was not at all as attentive to your moods and needs as I should have been. I wish I'd left the church after the first meeting with the elders; that failed reconciliation process sucked so much energy and joy that I could have focused on you. I wish I'd not tried to maintain any extra-familial relationships that required energy and were draining. In general, I'd never want to live any of my life over, but if I could go back to that time and do it over, knowing what I know now, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I failed you on so many occasions.

Those things said, I hope you know or someday will realize that I have always wanted you to be happy and have made conscious decisions at the time that I believed would be to your benefit. Even when I was wrong.

There was one time when you were about 5, and it was a gorgeous fall day, and you'd dressed up like you were going to a party, but we weren't going anywhere special. Instead, we went outside, and you were crunching around in the leaves and chasing butterflies. I sat down on the driveway because it was warm, having been in the sun all day. I thought, "This is a magical moment." Everything slowed down. I didn't have a camera, and knew I'd have to carefully remember everything  exactly as it was. You were happy and free and I absolutely relished those moments of your childhood.

Another favorite was driving all over Texoma with you, doing mystery shops, listening to audio books and eating French fries and trying on clothes. You were such a great companion; I never could have done those things if you hadn't been game. (I'll never forget coming back to the car after a revealed shop at the Burger King near Love Field when you told me, "Dumbledore is dead." I felt like a different person the whole drive home.)

Also, all of those day trips into Dallas to visit the art museum, or the zoos, or Sharkarosa Ranch. I hope you are glad we homeschooled. I feel like I had a chance to live another childhood of wonder and exploration because of it. 

I have always loved spending time with you. As you've matured and come into your own, I don't wistfully wish for those times back; I'm just extremely grateful to have had them. It's been a blessing to watch you grow up. I will miss you in a few years when you set off into your own solo adventure.

I love you. I hope you have a great 18th year. 

Mom

My Apologies to the Parents I Judged

Oh, you sweet mamma and dah-dah. I was wrong about you. I was so wrong. I might not have said anything to you, but I totally judged you in my heart, and that was a huge mistake. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.

When your toddler was running around the restaurant and I assumed that he behaved that way because you let him, that was some now-laughable hubris. I hope you'll forgive me, understanding that at the time, I had a kid who just naturally sat in a high chair for upwards of an hour with no problem. I didn't understand that some kids just don't. sit. still. Or that no amount of training can "fix" them, that it just takes time and maturity. If I rolled my eyes, I hope you didn't notice or that you just didn't care.

When you mentioned that your child slept with you, and I genuinely thought you were "creating a monster," oh my goodness... I did not get it. The study about genes playing a role in how babies sleep hadn't been conducted yet. My own anecdotal experience was that, sure, babies might not love sleeping on their own in a crib, but after a while, if you just insist, they'll get used to it and be just fine. For this one, I am so humbly sorry and hope you will accept this apology, knowing that I get it now.

When I saw this cover, I was certainly opinionated enough about it. I'm very sorry. I wasn't able to breastfeed my first, so I never thought about nursing for a year, or past a year, or all the way to the age of three or four, and this picture was way too evocative for where I was at the time. I am also sorry that the magazine didn't portray you and your cohorts the way that you thought they would; you seem like very thoughtful women, wanting to normalize breastfeeding. I get it now. I'm there now. And I would resent being judged the way that you were, the way that I judged you.

When your kid was running away from you, throwing a fit, doing that thing you'd asked them not to do six times already, you pleasantly picked them up, you were smiling even, and I thought you were obviously not taking this parenting thing seriously enough. I repent in sackcloth and ashes for this biggie. I had no idea how much determination it took to keep a pleasant demeanor when your kid isn't listening and won't do the safe thing. I didn't realize how much easier it would have been for you to show your frustration, make sure your kid knew, and use that anger to bully your kid into "minding." I never thought that you might have made a deliberate choice at some time in the past to treat your child the way you were treating him, and that it might take huge sacrifices and self-discipline to do that.

If it makes any of you feel any better, I am experiencing all of everything now. So much of what I thought was just good parenting was actually having an easy kid. I realize that now. I guess I'm glad that I realize it? No, I am. Glad. It's humbling, and I needed it. It is making me a better person. It is making me a more sympathetic person. It's making me less judgey. Sorry I ran into you before the change.

An Open Letter

For obvious reasons, I can't contact you. I doubt I will ever be able to, and yet I know that I owe you a debt that I cannot repay. I hope, however, that if I put this apology out there, maybe it will find you, and maybe it will mean something to you.

This is not the time to go into the "what"s and "why"s of everything. I don't think we will ever agree about what "happened." But here's something that I know is real:

I am so sorry that I hurt you. I genuinely am.

You were a bosom friend at a time when I needed one desperately. I appreciate that. I appreciate your loyalty at a difficult time in my life. I appreciate your care for my daughter, and your desire to teach her things. Your mentoring spirit and your bent to educate others was one of my favorite things about you.

You told someone once to do an internet search for some video, to which you pointed as proof that I admired you. Of course I admired you. Everyone knew that. I didn't hide it. I thought that you were a very talented person, with incredible stories, and so, so much to offer the world. I still think that.

You told me once that I was cold, remorseless, and unfeeling. You were probably right. I apologize for being cynical and hardened. I am very sorry that I pulled you into the orbit of my life at a time when my life had no center. I apologize for being self-focused to the exclusion of your feelings.

I don't think that it matters that that was never my intention.

The reality is that I hurt you. I let you down. I was in a sh*tstorm and I involved you, then once I found my way clear of the mess, I left it and you behind.

I can see how that might look intentional. I know it was callous. I empathize with your anger. I was experiencing the same anger, directed elsewhere, parallel to yours. And I have sincere sorrow about the things that I did, and the pain that I caused.

Every once in a while, I see something that I think you'd like, and I mourn a bit that I can't send it your way. I wish you all of life's happiness. I hope that you can extend grace to forgive me in your heart, but if you can't, I will understand. I really will.

You were one of the dearest people to my heart, and getting to know you, and your story, and your family's history, was a bright spot during days that didn't have much else to recommend them. I am sorry that I injured you. I am forever sorry.