A World Where Skin Color Is Of No Consequence

Just a few months after my daughter arrived we were pushing her in a carriage around campus. We lived in faculty housing and happened to run into one of the other instructors at the school. He was an elderly gentleman. Professor of History. He oooed and ahhhed appropriately over our new baby. And then he asked in hushed tones, “Are you going to tell her she’s adopted?”

I had to fight back a smile. My husband stood there looking stunned. The professor waited patiently for an answer.

“I think she’s going to figure that one out,” my husband said.

Our daughter is Asian. We are Caucasian. Yes, it will be obvious to her soon enough.

Privately, my husband commented on what a silly question that was. But I didn’t think so. I think it was a beautiful question. An amazingly beautiful, wonderful question. It meant that he didn’t see color of skin. He saw a precious baby girl. And from his generation, a generation that often didn’t discuss adoption, he wondered if we would. Her skin color was of no consequence. It wasn’t even apparent to him.

THAT’s the kind of world I want to live in. Where skin color is of no consequence. Where we don’t distinguish between brown, black, pink, olive, or white. OR where skin color is mentioned simply as another physical identifier, like eye color or hair color. When my boys were about 3 and 4 years old they would comment, “The boy with the brown skin” or “My skin is lighter than Mommy’s skin.” At first I bristled. How do I tell my boys it’s impolite to point out someone’s skin color? But then I thought, if they said “The girl with the red hair” do I tell them that it’s impolite to notice hair color? So, I let it go. And it became a non-issue.

But what about when we are forced to label ourselves? On a form for college, I was asked to check a box that described my race. The choices were: Caucasian, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, African-American, other. I choose ‘other.’ It asked me to explain. I wrote: Irish-Scottish-German-French-American but I prefer to be called ‘Euro-American.’ And never mind that there wasn’t a choice to appropriately categorize MY ethnicity – little American mutt that I am – what about the other black cultures out there? Not every black American is from Africa. What about Haiti, Cuba, Brazil, the Middle East? And as my husband pointed out, maybe we should ALL check African-American because, after all, mankind originated from a region in Africa.

How about when we celebrate our skin color publically? African-American Bloggers Conference, Asian Pacific American Heritage Month, The Billboard Latin Music Awards, Ku Klux Klan Parade. Oops. That was a bit politically incorrect. Yes, I know the KKK is a hate group. But they are celebrating their skin color. And think about it. If a group of white people get together, excluding all other skin colors – it’s racist. If another skin color group gets together – it’s a celebration. How is that promoting acceptance? It’s exclusionary. It’s preferential. It’s cliquish. It’s wrong.

I’m not perfect. I’ve made judgements based on skin color. I try very hard not to. I fight stereotypes and try to block the thoughts as soon as I notice them. But then there are times when I just don’t like the person. A professor friend of my husband’s once said, “Racism denies me my God-given right to detest the individual.” Sometimes it’s simply the inside of a person we don’t like.

If we are going to preach that ‘what is important is on the inside’ than we have got to stop noticing the outside. Appearances must be a non-issue. And you can’t exclude yourself to celebrate the color of your skin and then come back to the real world and expect to be noticed and valued for your abilities and character only. If you join groups that focus on skin color then expect to be defined by your skin color.  

I want to live in a colorblind world. I want to be valued for my insides. I want my children to simply be noticed as brother and sister, not adopted one and biological one. A world where skin color is just another physical characteristic like short or tall. Racism will simply be an archaic term to describe an unhappier time. No labels. No celebrations based on looks. Please tell me we’re not that far off.

Black Friday Is Worth Every Penny And Then Some

I grew up a bit of a tomboy. I’ve always lacked some very typical “girly” genes. Much to my daughter’s chagrin I’m not much into jewelry and lots of make-up. I don’t like to talk long on the phone. I’m soooo like a guy when it comes to talking (or not talking, as the case may be) about my feelings or arguing or even just communicating in a relationship. (I know, nothing to be proud of. I’m working on it.) I played softball but wanted to play baseball as a kid. I love camping out under the stars. I wore garter snakes around my wrists much to the delight of the boys in the neighborhood. And I’ve never liked to shop. Ever.

Still don’t. So when my 17 yr. old daughter asked if we could shop on Black Friday I laughed. Out loud. When she told me she was serious, I eyed her suspiciously.

“Only if we go at 5am,” I said, confident that she would back down immediately. You see, I’m a morning person. She’s a night person. A very late night person. She sleeps ’till noon every chance she gets. I knew I was safe.

“Ok!” she said enthusiastically.

Huh? What the…? How did that happen? I then tried to weasel out of it.

“Seriously? You’ll get up at 4:30? I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t think the stores you’ll want to shop even open up that early.”

Remember? I don’t like to shop. So in my forty-something years I’ve never shopped on Black Friday. I’ve avoided it like the plague. I thought only large discount stores and appliance stores were open at that un-godly hour the day after Thanksgiving. 

“No, I already checked,” she said, “The mall opens at 5am.”

Rats. I was stymied. I had no idea where to go from there to get out of it.

“Ok…….” I said, voice trailing. I still had 5 more days to figure out how to get out of it. Surely, something would come to me.

But Thanksgiving Day arrived and I still didn’t have a way out. And she was so excited. Sharing this story with my sister on the phone she chastised my lack of enthusiasm.

“You set that alarm for 4:30am and enjoy yourselves. You’re creating memories,” she said, “Just don’t forget your helmet and elbow pads.”

Yikes. That got me. Especially since my stomach sinks every time my daughter receives a letter from a college trying to recruit her. I’m trying to cherish every moment she wants to spend with me. What was my problem?

So on Friday morning, we woke up before the crack of dawn and set out. We drove past our local Wal-Mart at 5:15am. Every, and I mean EVERY parking spot was taken. People were parking on the grass, off the curb. I’ve never seen it so busy. What was I getting myself into?

We arrived at the mall by 5:30am. It was busy but not unbearable. We shopped. We laughed. We waited in lines. I had to go check out the deals at the Disney Store (of course) and she reluctantly tagged along. The line was about 10 people deep and she rolled her eyes. “This is just like waiting in line for the rides, ” she groaned. But when we went to Hollister (her favorite store) the line for the cash register winded, weaved and wove through the store. “This must be SOME roller coaster!” I said excitedly. She pretended not to know me.

We chatted on the way to other stores. We chatted over coffee. We chatted in lines. We chatted in the car on the way to lunch. We observed people and talked about that. She shared with me things that were going on with school and with her friends. We reminisced. Mostly light things but some heavy things came up, too. And when the heavy things surfaced it slipped into our conversation easy, calm. I was able to share things I’ve always wanted to say – things every parent should say. She shared with me her feelings with little awkwardness. (She is a teenager, after all.)

It was an amazing day.

I remember hearing Dr. Phil impart his wisdom on teenagers once. He said (and I’m paraphrasing here) that if you want your kids to talk to you about the big things then you’d better listen to the little things. In theory, I wholeheartedly agreed. But then, I was able to see it in motion.

I’ve always felt I was a pretty involved parent. But days like this remind me I can always do more. Listening to those little things – how many sisters we could tell were shopping together, who her friends were dating, the latest fashion must-haves, how awful school lunches were – turned into conversations and snippets of some really big things. (And since I’d like to preserve some of her privacy I’m just going to let you guess what those were.) I heard her thoughts. She heard mine. It was amazing conversation with a little shopping thrown in. We enjoyed ourselves so much we’ve decided to make it a yearly tradition.

I saved a good bit of money on Black Friday. I lost a little sleep. Looking back, it was a simple gesture that became grand. And I can’t believe I tried to get out of it. What a shame that would have been.

The ‘I Can’t Believe I Said That’ Post

I don’t know what it is about turning 5 years old, starting school and suddenly not enjoying the foods you used to love. #2son no longer likes broccoli, anything with a sauce, dark leafy greens, pineapple and hot cereal. The same thing happened to my daughter when she started school. #1son went through a similar episode but thank goodness it was only a phase for him. Because I honestly think he’s going to be a famous chef one day. He loves food. He loves preparing food. And if he can’t help me prepare the meal (tricky knife work or a hot stove) he’s happy to sit and watch me cook. But back to #2son…..

A few nights ago I prepared a new dish for dinner. Something that I thought would be very kid friendly. Meatballs in a BBQ sauce (that has grape jelly in the mix for goodness sake) over egg noodles with string beans. He devoured the green beans. And asked for more. He ate two helpings of green beans but wouldn’t touch the meatball dish.

“It looks yucky,” he said.

“Try it. It has grape jelly in it, your favorite,” I pleaded.

He fussed. He pushed things around. He stalled. Meanwhile, his brother was finished and on to dessert.

“Can I have that for dessert, too?” #2son asked.

“Yes, after you finish your dinner.”

“But I don’t like it,” he said.

“You haven’t even tried it yet. You like noodles. Try some noodles.”

He tasted the noodles. Not bad. So he ate all his noodles.

“Now can I have dessert?”

“No,” I said, “You still haven’t finished your dinner.”

He eyed the meatballs. He looked at me.

“But the meat has too much sauce on it and I don’t like the sauce and I still want dessert,” #2son explained.

“You have to eat the meatballs, too. It’s part of your dinner and if you want dessert you have to eat ALL of your dinner.”

“But I don’t like the meat!” he cried.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “You can’t have dessert if you don’t eat your meat. How can you have any dessert if you don’t eat your meat?”

And then I burst out laughing. And ran to go put on my Pink Floyd CD.

Happy Thanksgiving Y’all!

I was born in the north, but the south is where I call home. I’ve now lived more than half of my life here. I love everything about where I live: the weather, the people, the sweet lilting accent, sweet tea, collards and cornbread.

And I’m here to tell you, Southern Hospitality is NOT dead. My dear mother-in-law is from Boston. It drives her crazy with how friendly people are here. We’ll go to the grocery store and everyone smiles and nods a hello. The cashier will strike up a conversation with you. The young man bagging the groceries helps you to your car and won’t accept a tip. She’s all like, “What do they want from you?” I just laugh.

Along with the friendliness there’s a delightful mix of craziness. I’ve met my fair share of characters. Which makes this story, Alice’s Restaurant, totally believeable.

No Thanksgiving is complete without listening to Alice’s Restaurant by American folk singer Arlo Guthrie. It’s a bit long but if you don’t have your own copy or a radio station that plays this on Thanksgiving Day I saved you the trouble of finding it. Enjoy! And Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

Wordless Wednesday – Do You Know What It Is?

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

• Quote: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” ~Antoine de Saint-Exupery
• Drink: Coca Cola – elixir of the gods
• Book: Can’t name just one. Besides, in WordPress I can’t underline them properly so just on principle I refuse to name them. 
• People (besides you all, of course!) I would read anything they wrote: Truman Capote, Oscar Wilde, Barbara Kingsolver, Franz Kafka, Mark Twain, (I always feel a bit guilty not adding Hemingway but frankly, I don’t enjoy him. I’m terribly un-American that way.) Amy Tan, Ayn Rand, John Irving, Ray Bradbury, Shirley Jackson, Margaret Atwood, C.S. Lewis, D.H. Lawrence, Kaye Gibbons, Bill Bryson
• Play that many other people don’t like: Waiting for Godot
• Smells: fresh laundry, after a rain shower, bread baking, my children after their bath.
• Way to unwind: curled up with a good book
• Way I should unwind: Yoga
•  Memories from childhood: baseball games with my dad, giggling long into the night with my sister, swimming and swimming and swimming, Walt Disney World trips, being at school (yes, I was one of those nerds).
• Past times: people watching, hiking, sight-seeing, listening to stories from my grandparents, reading, writing and (yes, even) arithmetic, television and movies
• Foods: ice cream, vegetables, filet mignon, McDonald’s french fries, chocolate, raspberries, greek yogurt
• Seasons: autumn, winter, spring, summer
• Fictional characters: Mickey Mouse, Owen Meany, Holly Golightly, Charlie Brown, Atticus Finch, Santa Claus, The Grinch, Huckleberry Finn (hence our dog’s name), Uncle Remus, The Little Prince, Ellen Foster, Holden Caulfield, Maria Von Trapp from The Sound of Music (yes, I know she was a real person but I’ve read the movie version departs from her true personality so I’m going with the fictional version)

Sid Gets The Flu Shot

When my daughter reached a certain level in gymnastics we decided to homeschool her. It made sense. The gym was an hour from our home and practice was 4 hours a day. And many of her gym friends were homeschooled for the very same reasons.

My boys were toddlers at the time and they would watch Sesame Street. I was suddenly very aware how many “skits” were centered around organized school and how the school classroom was the best place to learn. It was a little too preachy for my tastes. And certainly, a little too preachy for a children’s television program.

Now granted, Sesame Street receives finding from the U.S. Department of Education. Homeschooling is certainly not mainstream but it sure would be nice if when they’re showing all the different ways to go to school (walk, ride bus, ride bikes, etc.) that they would acknowledge different ways to be schooled.

My daughter laughed at the skit about how to get to school because they showed how you had to get up early, remember all your things to bring, pack your lunch, pack your backpack, etc. She said, “With homeschool I just have to roll out of bed and walk a few steps to the dining room table! I can even stay in my pj’s!”

Now, I wrote about our decision to vaccinate for H1N1. It was a decision I agonized over. We don’t typically do the regular flu vaccine and we feel we have very good reasons for opting out. From what my husband (practices Traditional Chinese Medicine)  knows of a healthy immune system and the need adapt, fight and strengthen we don’t feel it’s best to immunize our otherwise healthy children for the flu. That doesn’t mean we feel everyone should feel as we do or that everyone should not be vaccinated.

But I very strongly feel that my children should not be preached to by puppets on a public television show about this controversial topic.

So, when I received a link to this little tidbit from a friend I was appalled.

But take a gander and let me know what you think.

Highly Marketable Yet Audibly Marginal

Driving in the car with my kids this morning a Miley Cyrus song came on the radio. I started to change the channel and I was verbally attacked. “STOP!” they cried, “We LIKE that song!” I turned to my daughter, age 17, surely a voice of reason. “Seriously?” I asked her. I mean, I get #1son and #2son liking it. It’s pop music and they’re 5 and 6. “Yeah,” she said to me with a look that said she was more than ready to defend her position.

I don’t get it. And quite frankly, I’ve never gotten it. Even way back in the day of Fleetwood Mac. I loved Fleetwood Mac. But Stevie Nicks? Her voice sounds like a cigar smoking chipmunk to me. (Uh-oh. I just lost a few readers I fear. 😦  Thanks for stopping by!) When I hear her version of Silent Night on the album “A Very Special Christmas” it’s like nails on a chalkboard to me. How dare she massacre such a sacred song?

But then, I liked Rush. And Geddy Lee’s vocal quality isn’t exactly pure. Or Janis Joplin. Or Kim Carnes. Or Bon Scott of AC/DC. Even Susanna Hoffs of The Bangles had a touch of that chipmunk quality. But I could listen to her without cringing. What was it about Stevie Nicks that bothered me so? And what was the secret to her mass appeal?

And then along came Britney Spears. My daughter was in early grade school when Britney first hit the pop charts. I predicted her a teeny bopper flash in the pan. Whoops! I did it again.  I couldn’t have been more wrong. Another nasal voiced chipmunk dressed (or not dressed as the case may be) up as a credible pop singer. I just don’t get it.

I began formulating this post in my mind in the car. When I sat down to the computer to type I saw this article on msn.com. Evidently the Aussie’s are in an uproar because Britney Spears dared to lip sync her concert. I’m sorry. But ever since you could lip sync and get away with it pop stars have been doing it. Now the article I’m referring to actually brings up the Milli Vanilli debacle – but I’m not talking about lip syncing to someone else’s voice. I’m talking about lip syncing to your best recording or the one of your voice that been washed, scrubbed and tweaked in every way digitally possible to bring forth a version that is palpable to the ear. To some.

Music through the decades is a very interesting subject to me. I could spin 100 posts on the subject. But what interests me today is the highly marketable yet audibly marginal voices you hear on the radio. On American Idol last season (yes, I watch, unashamed) there are episodes when highly established pop singers perform. They sing live – as the contestants do. If you follow the program I’m remembering when Lady Ga Ga appeared. (I still giggle every time I hear that ridiculous stage name) She was horrible. Every AI finalist left at that point in the show had a better voice than she did. What is her appeal?

I’m not saying you need a PhD like Brian May of Queen or be an esteemed alum of the Juilliard School. Let’s try this. Let’s celebrate singers that can actually sing. Let’s honor people who have honed their craft and not simply covered themselves in glitter and called themselves a star. I could do that. We all could. When I turn on the radio I want to hear good music. Not the manufactured tones of a souped up studio mimed by a made up kewpie doll.

Commenting on Comments and Thanking Those Who Do

I’m getting quite close to my 100th post. (Oooo, my stomach just did a little flip-flop in anticipation. Yours too?) And many of you out there celebrate your 100th, 500th or 1000th (Joey!) post. But what about those comments? When are they recognized? Where would we be without comments on our musings?

One of the things I did not anticipate enjoying as much as I do about blogging is the comments. Both giving and receiving (wink, wink). There are some days when I sit down at the computer, fully anticipating to write 7 or 8 prolific posts, but instead spend 3 hours reading your blogs and commenting on them. Then I remember why I sat down to the computer in the first place, click ‘new post’ and I got nothin’. Oh sure, I’ve blamed my crazy life but sometimes I have no one to blame but myself. You people are just too interesting. You suck the great ideas right outta me.

But the dialog that comments provide is invaluable.

And I’ve struggled with how to handle comments from day one. First, I was mostly a lurker. Reading your blogs. Skipping along to the next. Sometimes I just had nothing to say, other times I was intimidated by the amazing comments left by others.

After I dipped my toe in and started to comment I took the full plunge and became a comment whore. I’d comment on anything and everything. I’d spend more time commenting than I would creating a new post. It became exhausting. But I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. If they left a comment on my blog, I left a comment on theirs. If they visited my blog and I could see their blog address on my limited stats keeper here on free WordPress, I’d go to their blog and comment. Even with blogs who didn’t know I existed I would pressure myself to leave a comment, any kind of comment, even if I had nothing to say. I imagined they could see (because they had super-high-powered-stats-keepers-that-could-track-me-down-through-tiny-internet-wires) that I had visited and dared not to let them know I had stopped by.

And some of you demand that people comment. (guilt) And some of you ask questions to encourage comments. (more guilt) And some have pictures and quotes and diagrams and recipes and comics and videos and links to other great bloggers and put sooooo much effort into one little post. (even more guilt….hmmmm, I’m a better Catholic than I thought I was.)

So I gave up. I comment when I have something to say. What a revelation that was! My empty comments weren’t getting me anywhere except behind in my writing and making me feel horrible that I was creating vapid, transparent snippets that clutter up your pages.

Which brings me to the comments I receive here…Oops…..That didn’t come out right – it was the timing. Let me try that again…..

I am so thankful for the comments I receive here. Truly! It’s nice to know that I touch people, amuse people or stop and make them re-think. Oh sure, I receive my fair share of spam. Or thinly veiled comments that reek of ‘I’m only commenting because I want you to visit me at my blog.’ But honestly, those are far and few between. I have surrounded myself in Bloggy World (much as I have in the Real World) with wonderful, interesting, thoughtful people. What an amazing extension of my real life this writing has become and I have you all to thank.

Which leads me to……..my 1000th comment! (Party streamers, confetti and cake for all!)

My blog has received its 1000th comment from one of you, dear readers. Will Joe from Meech and Joe please stand up? Let’s give him a hand everyone! Help me to thank him and all of you for commenting here over the past 4 months! I’ve enjoyed hearing from you and commenting on your blogs. Here’s to continuing our conversations together!  

( Unknown Mami has created an interesting meme along this subject, I Comment Therefore I Am. Worth checking out!)

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor – But Then What?

A post over at My Wildlife’s Words  got me thinking. My grandfather used to volunteer much of his time at soup kitchens and homeless shelters. But he never gave money, outright, to someone who was panhandling. I asked him why. And he said to me, “Because you never know if they’re going to do the right thing with it. Before you can help them they need to know how to help themselves.” He always did a litmus test with people begging for change. He’d tell them no, but if they wanted he would buy them a bowl of soup. If they took him up on the offer of a bowl of soup he’d buy them a meal, give them information on where he volunteered and often slipped them more money. If they turned him down he knew they weren’t ready to be helped.

But in my younger days I still gave them money any time they asked. And naive little me, visiting the Detroit Art Institute was approached by a gentleman who had run out of gas. Please? he pleaded, My wife and kids are sitting in the car. We just need enough gas to get home. I handed him a 5 dollar bill. He thanked me and approached another couple with the same story. I just assumed that he need more than $5 in gas to get home. We toured the gallery and walked to a nearby place for lunch. Crossing the street I see the desperate gentleman I had been approached by earlier, sitting with this buddy, drinking something out of a brown paper bag. I’d been had.

So I became jaded. I refused anyone who approached me for money. I wasn’t about to do my grandfather’s litmus test. Me? A lone female taking strange men or women to lunch? But I volunteered at our local homeless shelter, serving lunch a few times a month. I donated to causes that meant something to me.

I remember one particular Thanksgiving my sisters and I all met at my parent’s house in Louisville. My sister and I had to run out to the store. On our way, in an abandoned parking lot was an old station wagon. The back was made into a makeshift sleeping loft. Clothes and personal belongings were heaped in garbage bags. A woman dressed in tattered clothing sat outside her car with a sign begging for money. No work, she claimed. They lost their home. Trying to make it back home to California. Two children, in equally tattered clothing sat beside her. My sister cried, “Stop! We need to help them.” I kept driving and told her, no.  She was annoyed. And in the grocery store she grabbed her own cart and filled it with food. She insisted on stopping on our way home to give them the food. The woman tried to look grateful but told my sister what they really needed was money. Embarrassed, my sister reached into her purse and handed her a twenty. She tried again to leave the food but the woman refused. Puzzled, my sister got back in the car and we drove home in silence.

Later that night, on the evening news, was a story about that very woman. Evidently, a reporter followed her “home.” She used her electric garage door opener to shuttle her car away to safety. And then, presumably, entered her home. A very nice home. A very nice neighborhood. Homes with 3 car garages. Manicured lawns. When the reporter tried to interview her the door was slammed in his face. But of course, he had more information. It was estimated that she scammed $30,000 a year. Her husband was gainfully employed. She was well-known for several haunts, using different stories and signs.  And she used her children in this scam especially around the holiday season.

While visiting Savannah recently we were in a very nice specialty food store. They had gourmet jams and jellies. Wine and sweets. They also had a deli with hot and cold food. A man approached me and my son. He asked for money for some food. I saw this as the perfect opportunity to teach my child about helping someone in need. My husband was close by. There were plenty of people in the store and I could use my grandfather’s litmus test and feel safe using it if the man took me up on my offer to buy him a meal. He did take me up on my offer. We approached the counter so he could tell the server what he wanted. The server refused. I told him, No. This is my friend and I’m buying him a meal. The server still refused and told me panhandling is illegal. I told him I offered to buy him a meal. Reluctantly, he gave the man the food and I paid for it. But then he sternly told the panhandler to leave the store and never come back. And then sternly told me it was against the law to give money to panhandlers. There was a stiff fine and it was posted all over the city. I guess if they discouraged people from giving money to panhandlers they would leave and try elsewhere. So much for the lesson for my son. It turned into a big lesson for me.

Help or not to help? And who is it helping? I worked in the employment industry for a short time. Couple that experience with any of the charity work I’ve done I’ve learned there are people who want to help themselves and a “handout” will tide them over until they can make it on their own. And I’ve learned there are others that simply want the handout. Many people who need the help don’t know it exists. This country is a country of enablers. We want to reach out to others (Give me your tired, your poor). But we need to do a better job of making sure that the people who need it know where to find help. Most of all, we need to help create a society that doesn’t expect or rely on handouts to get by.