“America is a serial brutalizer of black and brown people. Brutalizing them is what it does. It does other things, too, yes, but brutalizing black and brown people is what it has done the most, and with the most zeal, and for the longest.”—Albert Burneko, “The Concourse”
In the days between two grotesque and revealing grand-jury decisions not to indict the killers of two unarmed black men, a photo of a white policeman embracing a weeping black boy kept popping up in my Facebook feed. Posted and reposted and liked and re-liked by not a small number of my friends, the image was like an oxygen mask for certain suffocating masses. And I get it: I can’t breathe, either.
As legend goes, a black boy the same age as Tamir Rice—shot dead by a policeman in Cleveland three days earlier because he was holding a toy gun—stood at a rally holding a sign. “Free hugs,” it read. As legend goes, a white cop asked if he could have one of Devonte Hart’s free hugs. As legend goes, before they embraced, the white cop offered an apology. And doves flew down from the sky and peace ruled the land and we all lived happily ever after.
Some people who witnessed the hug event believe the photo was staged. Despite this possibility, people need a salve even if it’s a lie, because reality, as we’ve been experiencing, is too painful. Without the fairytale white people choose to live, how can we get out of bed each day?
According to a gushing article accompanying the photo on inquisitr.com, the image became “something of a symbol of hope in the midst of the anger surrounding the Mike Brown shooting.” The Oregonian (and, later, CNN) called it “the hug shared around the world.” Bustle.com said the image was “crushing and heartwarming and hopeful, all at the same time. And it really says it all.”
Except it really doesn’t say it all. Devonte’s story does that.
People the globe over now know details they shouldn’t about their new favorite black person (move over, Lupita). For millions, Devonte’s a safe black person because he’s being raised by white people—who generously let us all know that he was born drug-addicted in the projects. His moms shared with the world that by the age of 4, he had experienced a whole list of traumas that I simply don’t feel comfortable repeating here.
Who needs a black Annie when we have Devonte?
I know this Lifetime television backstory makes a great many people feel somehow better about the vile racist society we cultivate, perpetuate and continue to tolerate. So, forgive me when I ruin the moment: To quote activist and writer Awesomely Luvvie from her must-read piece “The Stages of What Happens When There’s Injustice Against Black People,” adoptive parents everywhere need to “shut the ENTIRE COMPLETE ABSOLUTE fuck up” when it comes to sharing our children’s stories. Their stories are theirs to tell, if and when they choose to tell them.
It is nobody’s business if your child was born addicted to drugs. It’s nobody’s business if your child was left at a “baby hatch” in China. It is nobody’s business if your child was sexually abused in an orphanage in Ethiopia. It is nobody’s business if your child was born addicted to crack or was taken from his mother by the state or was the product of rape.
Adopted kids of color are not mascots; they are human beings who had no choice in their circumstances. And while I have little doubt that Jennifer and Sarah Hart love all their children like I love mine, they over-shared about Devonte to a breathtaking degree and propagandized their son.
Not only have they betrayed his privacy; they’ve also implied—whether they intended to or not—that they saved this child from his first mother specifically (perfectly feeding into white America’s stereotype of black women) and from the perceived ills of being raised in a black family and community in general. The image and story combine to reinforce the American white-savior complex and our white-supremacist social structure. In a society that routinely goes out of its way to assassinate the characters of black people dead or alive (he had pot in his system, she was drunk, his test scores were low), Devonte’s parents have ensured that even a prospective employer can do this.
Moreover, they forget—and, widely, audiences fail to understand—that, very soon, this loveable kid in a jaunty hat will be perceived as a grown man, likely well before he is one, as often happens to black male youth. And when Devonte goes into the world looking like an adult, neither his adorableness nor his mothers’ white privilege will go with him there. Cops won’t hug him; Internet viewers won’t fawn.
I’m confident that Mike Brown, Eric Garner, John Crawford III, Jordan Davis, Renisha McBride, Trayvon Martin, Rekia Boyd and Amadou Diallou were all huggable black children once. But then they grew and their humanity was stripped from them, like it will be with Devonte.
The future is coming for Devonte and black kids like him—like my daughter—and the straight-up depressing fucking fact is that it won’t matter if they’re star students or college professors, if their parents are black or white, if they stroll in the street or run in the rain, if they remain silent or talk back, if they wear hipster hats or hoodies.
The terrifying future will look a lot like right now. And right now is solar systems away from a simplistic, viral, fairytale image of a white cop and a black kid embracing.
(Published in San Diego CityBeat on December 8, 2014.)
As Michael Brown was being gunned down by a police officer on Aug. 9 in Ferguson, Missouri, I was enjoying a free summer concert in the park, enjoying the very loud but happy bounce of zydeco music, played by predominantly white musicians, for a predominantly white crowd, in a predominantly white neighborhood.
It’s stunning to think about the America I was enjoying at the very same moment an 18-year-old kid—the totality of his protective gear being his black skin—was hunted by a man gripping a gun and suited up in centuries of law specifically designed to protect someone wearing white skin.
Though my news feed over the next 36 hours would become an electronic river of devastating articles and op-eds about Brown—and John Crawford III (killed by Ohio police), Ezell Ford (killed by California police) and the retread from way back on July 17, 2014, Eric Garner (killed by New York police)—I couldn’t bring myself to look just yet.
It’s no wonder I didn’t immediately submit myself to the collective horrors of what was unfolding in Ferguson until after the weekend was over. The injustices against black Americans in particular get to be too much to hold, something my black friends have voiced in the past and probably part of the reason why certain things that have infuriated me (the UCSD Compton Cookout of 2010 comes to mind) tend to register as a shoulder shrug and a yeah-it-happens-all-the-time-what-of-it reaction in them. Black Americans don’t have the choice to step in and out of the black experience like we do—OK, Iggy Azelea and Katy Perry? And paging Lululemon: Please just quit with the “Rollin with my om’ies” yoga gear already.
White people like you and me, dear CityBeat reader, have the privilege not to deal with any of the race realities if we don’t want to. Such blindness probably accounts at least in part for the fact that, according to the Pew Research Center, only 37 percent of whites think blacks are treated unfairly when dealing with the police. This is compared with 70 percent of blacks living in their America.
Hey, speaking of fairness, have you heard about the white dude in New Orleans who was shot dead by police back in April after he pointed a gun at them and screamed, “No, you drop your fucking gun!” when they told him to disarm? No? Maybe that’s because he wasn’t shot dead; he was taken into custody. Just like that white guy who killed 12 people at a screening of Batman in Aurora, Colorado. Imagine an America where a black man in either scenario is cuffed and taken to jail. Can you picture it? Me, neither.
As it turns out, apathy—even with the most noble of intentions—is an irresponsible choice with dangerous repercussions. In a timely piece, StoryCorps captured the ramifications for transracially adopted people who have not been exposed to honest race dialogue. Five years ago, at age 19, Alex Landau, who is black, was inexplicably beaten beyond recognition by police. His bloodied image is disturbing, but even more so when placed next to the smiling one of him and his white mother who never talked about race when Landau was growing up.
“I thought that love would conquer all and skin color really didn’t matter,” she said to her son. “I had to learn the really hard way when they almost killed you.”
I feel his mother’s pain, but the person who had to learn the hard way was Landau.
Adoptive parents of black children risk their kids’ lives by taking the love-is-enough approach, because they won’t be protected by our white-privilege force field forever. Making race irrelevant is a betrayal of them, and if we want to prepare them, we have to talk about blackness the way black parents talk to their kids. We have to learn from the black community how best to prepare our kids, because even those who say, “Hands up, don’t shoot!” can find themselves face down on a sidewalk bleeding from the head.
But this is still not sufficient. White parents of children born to them should be having the same conversations. All white people, kids or not, should be in serious dialogue right now about what’s going down in that other America, asking themselves if they are truly OK with things as they are. And if they’re not—if we’re not—then what, exactly, do we plan to do about it?
My particular challenge in living unveiled among so many white people who want to carry on as if “democracy had a win”—as someone wrote on Facebook after the Ferguson police force was replaced by the Missouri Highway Patrol—is to continue speaking out against such naiveté, to keep pushing those in my white tribe to get over their guilt, get in touch with their humanity and be active agents for justice.
I won’t stop when those folks struggling to get right with their own biases and racism become uncomfortable. I won’t stop when they’re so triggered that they react by trying to shame, patronize or insult me.
I’m going to keep doing it even if, at times, I get it wrong and even if people cross the room to get away from me. Even if I lose friends. Because I’m not satisfied with people being gunned down in the street while I sip an illicit cup of Pinot Grigio from the safety of a park in a certain kind of American neighborhood.
(Published in San Diego CityBeat on August 18, 2014.)
Following news reports of recent recruitment activities by the KKK involving (what else) hate fliers and Jolly Rancher candies, I sent a note to the candy maker’s parent company. Join me! You can call (800-468-1714) or write.
I am a long-time fan of Hershey’s chocolate, taking myself back to childhood each time I break off a piece from a larger candy bar and let it melt on my tongue. Even as boutique and hand-crafted chocolates have come into fashion, I frequently grab a chocolate bar at the grocery store checkout—and always convenience stores while on road trips—because no chocolate tastes like Hershey’s chocolate. Hershey’s Kisses are a staple from Santa Claus every December, comprise centerpieces at our home when we host guests for any reason, and serve as a little pick-me-up when the 2:30 workday doldrums roll around. My child now enjoys, like I did when I was her age, the joy and magic of unwrapping the little silver morsel. Hershey’s is a part of my American experience, like it is for millions of other people. In it’s essence, Hershey reminds me of love.
So you can imagine my dismay at the news this past weekend that the Ku Klux Klan has been distributing their hateful recruitment fliers all across American communities, by placing them in plastic baggies weighted down with Jolly Ranchers, a Hershey Company product. This activity is extremely disconcerting at any time, but it has an especially painful and frightening sting in light of the events coming out of Ferguson, Missouri these past weeks (and New York City, NY; and Los Angeles, CA; and Beevercreek, OH; and Chicago, Il; sadly, I could go on and likely will have other opportunities to do so). The last thing we need in America is the spreading of radical ideology that furthers white supremacy.
I urge the Hershey Company to publicly denounce the use of any of its products as a means for distributing the hate, racism, and bigotry being spread by the KKK. Additionally, I would encourage you to make a donation to the ACLU or another charitable organization that is working to undo all the evilness that racism has created in our country. You could even ask any recipients of said fliers to turn them in and donate one dollar (or one hundred) for each one you receive.
Please: Be louder than the hate groups. Join those of us working diligently as anti-racist activists to spread love, equality, equity, peace, and justice. Be love.
Every once in a while, someone touches your life in a an unexpected and deeply meaningful way. Such is the case when I had the good fortune to meet Angela Tucker.
All because: Once upon a time, I saw a trailer, cried an ugly sniveling cry, and promptly emailed the producer to say ILOVEYOUALLHOWCANISEEYOURFILM? It’s true. I did that waaaay back in the spring, was allowed to see an advanced copy, promised a review, and then I got to hug Angela at Pact Camp because she and her husband brought their film to Pact Camp! My review is horribly delayed because I suck. But you know who doesn’t suck? Angela Tucker, that’s who! You can totally tell from that photo of her, too.
Now, on to the horribly delayed-because-I-suck review:
Angela is the subject of an intensely personal and widely relevant documentary currently making its way through the indie film festival circuit (it’s currently being screened at the Doctober Festival in Bellingham, Wa.). Produced and edited by Angela’s husband Bryan Tucker—with original music by Mr. & Mrs. Something—Closure follows then 26-year-old Angela on her journey to meet her birth mother, who placed her for adoption when she was born.
Diagnosed as special needs and given a long-term prognosis that didn’t include walking, Angela spent one year in the home of a foster family before being adopted by David and Teresa Burt, a white couple who live in Washington. There they raised a total of eight children, seven of whom were adopted, and Angela flourished into the radiant, active person you see in that picture up there. The same one who chooses, with each new preview of this film, to bravely share what most adoptees would not. And who can blame them? This film is about transracial adoption and the difficult search for identity and connection. This. Is. Big.
The film opens with Angela in a Skype conversation with Teresa. Angela is preparing to dial the number of her birth mother for the first time, and the back-and-forth between the two women is filled with nervous giggles, sighs, reassurances. There is a lot of love and trust between these two, and you feel it immediately. Angela’s mother listens to her daughter, and counsels her calmly about how to end the call if and when she needs to. Angela takes a moment, takes a breath, looks at the camera, then dials. The phone rings and the screen goes dark as Deborah picks up.
The tension created is immediate and doesn’t let up for much of the film. Whether it was intentional on the part of the filmmaker, the first twenty minutes was especially rife with moments that had the potential to go off the rails. Bryan (I’m going with first names since he and his wife share the same last one) focused much of his attention on interviews with David and Teresa telling the story of how they built their family. And as they spoke of Angela’s growing desire to know her birth mother and other relatives, there were admissions that felt sort of…dangerous.
David mentioned not seeing color, just kids in need; Teresa expressed worry about being replaced; Angela’s sister grappled with why their parents weren’t “enough.” In the modern adoption world, we hope for openness and the need to recognize that in fact, adoptive parents aren’t enough. But theirs are real fears spoken of honestly, and it is clear that the family moved beyond them and instead came to fully understand and support Angela’s need to know where she came from, and in rather amazing ways: Angela’s brother-in-law rises to the occasion, and his dedication to not just her but to one of her siblings as well, is something I didn’t expect. This evolution in thinking is crucial and Bryan’s focus on it was smart.
Unable to find her birth mother through the limited records at her disposal, Angela and Bryan decide to focus their search on Angela’s birth father instead. Thanks to determination, the wonder that is the Internet, and a process that left me agape, they find him living in Chatanooga. The family promptly sets off for Tennessee, where they meet Oterious “Sandy” Bell, along with numerous other extended family members. At some point during this meeting, Sandy mentions he knows where Angela’s birth mother Deborah lives, and they once again pile into a van. When Angela and a car load of family members approach Deborah on the sidewalk, Bryan shuts off his camera, realizing that this is a moment that warrants more privacy. And it does: Deborah denies Angela. But still: We had seen a lot. This was a very difficult scene for me, because I felt as though Deborah was ambushed.
That’s not how you’re supposed to do it, I thought. But there is no How To Meet Your Birth Mother handbook, and I found this scene—like much of the film—to be very instructional in backing off with my adoptive parent knows best judgement. This was Angela navigating a very difficult circumstance unfolding in the moment; it makes sense that she would want those she loves most to be there.
And again, this is her story. Which includes Deborah’s rejection—a second rejection, really—which is sharp, and Angela is stunned as she tries to work through why Deborah has done this. “I do feel like I deserve to know stuff. She has an obligation to tell me some things,” Angela says at one point. And we feel her angst completely. I defy anyone to withhold tears at this. We soon learn that Deborah has kept Angela a secret from her family for 26-years and we are given a window into the loss she has experienced as a result of placing Angela for adoption, as well as some insight into the wall this secret built between Deborah and her siblings. That loss ripples out to all of Angela’s people—her aunts, uncles, siblings—who flood her with phone calls, effusive in their longing for her, desperate it seems, to make up for lost time. The voice mails are both joyous and mournful, much like adoption itself.
As defining life moments go, meeting birth family had to be a major kicking up of sediment, and I would guess that neither Angela or Bryan were prepared for the aftermath of repeatedly sharing and discussing this little film with very big implications. To relive it at each screening, to discuss it and defend it and explain it must be exhausting. The audience with whom I watched this movie was made up of adoptive parents and adult adoptees some of whom took great issue with the film’s title (I personally kept thinking that this was less of a closure and more of an opening). But as Bryan said in a Q & A after the screening, this is Angela’s story, but it’s his film; it is a documentary, but it is art. It should be noted that while this film is worthwhile to any members of the adoption triad—adoptees (age 13 and older), birth parents, and adoptive parents—it can be very triggering, and the title may be a part of that. As I understand it, audiences not intimately familiar with adoption don’t tend to have the same reaction. This film will be different experience, with different meaning and impact for each viewer, depending on the lens.
I’m no expert in cinematography, but there are some places in this film that felt long to me—a few drives in the car and one scene in a pool hall—and more economical editing wouldn’t have taken away from the tone being established. There are also a several spots with religious overtones that could lend this film to being the darling of the currently in vogue Christian adoption movement.
It sort of goes without saying that Closure doesn’t end in a crisp package with a neat bow. There isn’t an end to this story. This is real life. Bryan Tucker brings his humanity to this film, to his wife’s most personal story, and gives a compelling, heart-wrenching, validating, and deeply moving depiction of her struggle. This is a gift to those of us living in families touched by adoption, for those of us who see ourselves in any of the roles, and offers us much to contemplate and discuss.
SMOKE AND MIRRORS: If 90% of the American public supported the outlawing of abortion, you bet your sweet zygotes that our elected officials would have it done. What’s so different about the background check?
Uh-huh. That’s right. I’m gonna deal with this today, because re-sharing this photo on Facebook didn’t make me feel any better. I shouldn’t write about it now because I’m really pissed off, and I always try to sleep on things I’ve written before I hit publish (or send, for that matter). I’m so pissed off about yesterday’s despicable senate capitulation to big money and the gun lobby. I’m pissed off even though I knew way back in December—about 13 seconds after I heard the death tally in the Newtown massacre—that nothing was going to change. It was this firm knowledge that was going to keep me from getting pissed off when today happened. I was supposed to shrug, sigh and move on. Bombing in Boston, Cowardly Congress, ho-hum, do these pants make me look fat?
But about 12 seconds after that grim announcement that 20 babies had been heinously slaughtered at the end of a weapon designed for warfare, I had a kernel of hope that, Hmmmm…maybe the obliteration of a bunch of (almost all) white children will finally tip the scales.
I quickly dismissed that sense of possibility. I’m a realist, after all. But the human spirit has a proclivity toward wishful thinking, an affinity for hope. It’s a survival thing, I think, an involuntary response to unbearable trauma.
Well. I attribute my anger tonight to that stupid fucking hope. That singular floating dust mite of ridiculously irrational, completely intangible bullshit that must have lodged itself somewhere deep in my body even as I’ve said, over and over again when discussing this topic, We will never change.
I knew. I knew nothing would come of the twenty murdered kids. If congress couldn’t make change after the gun was turned on one of its own (narcissists as they are, this—if anything—should have compelled them to act), why would a smattering of six-year-old body parts across a schoolroom have any impact?
Even as 90%— NINETYFUCKINGPERCENT!—of American people support background checks for gun purchasers: Nothing. 45 “nay”s (I’m not counting Harry Reid’s strategic vote) and our representatives stacked their papers, and straightened their ties and headed home for the night with their jobs and their pay checks and their free-health-care-for-life happily in tact. Shit we, as voters, bestow on them with the humble expectation that they, oh…I don’t know…represent the fuck out of us? That’s right. They represent us. Is 90% so loud as to be deafening?
Meanwhile, gun violence goes on and on, blahdeeblah, I wonder what shoes to wear to the gala on Saturday….
You know, black children die every day in America thanks to guns, and nobody in congress cares. It’s a fact of life. But congress doesn’t care about dying white kids either. It occurs to me that we may finally have undeniable proof of a level playing field. Are we supposed to be hopeful about that?
Look. 90% of Americans do not agree that we should confiscate all guns. Nor do 90% of Americans agree that we should ban automatic weapons, though I line up in that group, too. What 90% of American people do agree on, is the requirement of a background check for gun purchasers, not unlike that required to obtain a driver license. Or a passport. Or a child. Funny: You have to have to have a background check to adopt a child, but not to kill one. Any bonehead can do that. In fact, has done that. And will again.
My father died five days ago. My youngest brother learned of his death via Facebook, of all things, four days after the fact. The obituary paints a sleek portrait of a beautiful man who climbed mountains and adored animals. A mountain of a man, some might say of John Allred.
To be sure, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro is an impressive accomplishment. Taking in and loving animals are acts of humanity. But it is commonly accepted—across time and throughout cultures—that one of the most meaningful things a person can do is to become a parent. To omit this portion of my father’s life with only a passing mention to “children from a previous marriage,” reduces the wholeness of it, and conveniently obliterates any truth of who he was at the very core of his being.
Aaryn Greer Allred
John Derek Allred
Corey Braden Allred
Those are the names of John’s three children. My brothers and I are real people with full, rich, complicated lives. We are not hypothetical afterthoughts. We are not apparitions. Except in the way our father treated us.
It deserves to be said that before marrying Susan Creager, “the love of his life,” John was married briefly to Leslie Kennedy, and then for 13 years to my amazing, resilient mother, Gaydi Shore. It could be argued that Leslie and my mother were also the loves of John’s life at one time.
Though it ended in divorce, my parents marriage began as a love affair, the kind any person could hope to experience in a lifetime.
To this day, despite the inevitable implosion of their relationship, I still love to hear the many stories of my parents’ courtship. Often at the holidays, I’ll ask my mother to recount—again—their wedding at the former Hotel Utah; the time she spent with my father in Germany; how he taught her to drive stick shift in their old Porsche; how much they wanted to have a baby. For all the trauma that was to follow those happier days, there is no doubt my brothers and I were conceived in love.
Ultimately, John chose to exile me from his life, and to a different extent, he did the same with my brothers. He chose this path with the full support and complicity of Susan, a woman with endless space in her heart for animals in need, but no such capacity for John’s children.
In addition to my brothers and me, John is survived by two granddaughters: The lovely and inimitable 12-year-old Maisie; and seven-year-old Ruby, a most magical and glorious child whom John never had the desire to know. A third granddaughter will make the world a better place when she arrives this spring. It is my hope that Baby Doris will bring healing to my brother, as he will have the opportunity to become the kind of father he never had, but always deserved.
In the end, a man can summit the highest peaks in the world and rescue every pitbull at the shelter. But the true measure of his character—of his humanity—is plainly visible in the way he treats his children.
Can all food be prepared gluten free so we no longer have to talk about it?
Have you heard? Mitt Romney is kicking butt (that’s for you, PBS) and taking names when it comes to the white vote. According to this Washington Post article from late last week, he’s losing the Latino vote by enough to potentially cost him the election…but not if Latinos stay home while white folks storm the gates in favor of the agitated, sweaty shape-changer from last Monday’s debate. (Edited to add: This latest piece agrees, and mentions an “uncomfortable racial math” of this election. “We don’t want to see our politics divided by race going into the future,” says one CNN analyst whom I presume is not talking about the GOP.) And is Romney peeling off some of the Black vote? In 2008, Barack Obama carried 95% of the Black vote, but reports like this claim the number is slipping.
It makes little sense to me that this race is even close. But it is. And given how close it is, what is the GOP doing to push their guy over the edge? It certainly isn’t their opaque “5 Points Plan.” So what, exactly, are they doing?
I have one word for you: Cheating.
Since a candidate cannot win on the white vote alone, and since courting the brown vote hasn’t been a priority for Romney, Willard and his Grand Old Party are doing what they do best. Yes, the folks that will go to the mat over an American Flag lapel pin, and who will out-patriot any patriot in Patriotland by telling you exactly how patriotic they are, are disenfranchising voters of color.
In Arizona’s Maricopa County last week, Spanish language voter registration cards were sent out with the wrong election date. They claim only 50 cards had the wrong date, which makes complete sense, since there’s no way they would print, you know, 2 million election cards in bulk, right? Nah! You definitely run those off using your ink jet printer on an as-need basis!
Moving east, 140 of these beauties went up in African-American neighborhoods in Ohio and Wisconsin:
The Billboards were funded by an anonymous “family foundation” and are being taken down, thanks to some angry community members who knew that staying silent was to be complicit. These citizens helped Clear Channel—the company that owns the billboards—get over its Romnesia, reminding them about their policy that disallows anonymous funding of billboards. Another interesting tidbit: Clear Channel is co-owned by Bain Capital which is Mitt Romney’s former-ish company. If it smells like a rat…
Of course, we’ve been hearing all about the push for voter ID laws in myriad states across this country, a below-the-radar effort during the past two years to disproportionately target people of color even while right-wing supporters claim they are simply rooting out fraud. This is peachy coming as it does from those who know about voter fraud first hand. This anti-American effort to cut out the already disenfranchised in our society should be alarming to all of us, but especially so, according to the Center for American Progress, for women of color. Behold:
“Women of color stand at the crossroads of what is in essence a double disenfranchisement. When they are denied the opportunity to participate in civic life, they also lose the ability to voice their opinions and hold lawmakers accountable on the reproductive health issues that directly affect them.”
That’s a double-whammy, right there, if we inaugurate a President Romney next January.
And today, Race 2012 blogger Julene, pointed out a disturbing link between the anti-Obama ads running on BET and the overwhelmingly white make up of the board of directors of its new owner, Viacom. It’s sort of like white people owning the majority of black hair products on the market, only (no disrespect here, that is also a serious issue), it’s worse. It’s way worse. See the Tim Wise video at the bottom of my previous post for a primer about the age old divide-and-conquer method of disenfranchisement.
What I want to know is, when do the rest of us get outraged enough to act, like the people who forced Clear Channel to atone? When do we demand an end to this deviousness in our elections, and accountability and truthfulness and honesty in our political process? How bad do things have to get before all people, regardless of party affiliation, admit that these kinds of election shenanigans hurt all of us, individually and collectively and undermine everything that is good about—or should I say, anything that is left of—our democracy?
The time is now, people. The time is yesterday, today and tomorrow.
When I considered joining the cast of writers participating in the Race 2012 blogging project hosted by Monica’s Tangled Web, I had to think carefully about what it was I wanted to say as it pertains to race and politics. As the white parent of a Black child, I come to the table with a unique-ish experience; there are endless opportunities to write, dissect, present, discuss, address, argue, and advocate.
I should say here that race is a part of my life in a way that it isn’t for most white people who have the privilege of talking about race or, sadly, not talking about it. This is not an option for people of color, and it’s not an option for people who have adopted children of color, regardless of color. I wrote in June about an incident that led to a discussion with our young child about the N-word, a chat we realized should have had much sooner. It goes without saying that I don’t know one white family who has had this talk over breakfast. Just yesterday, we had the occasion to explain to our child what it meant to be tarred and feathered. Indeed, it is no easy task to look into the eyes of a child and describe a method of brutalization used against her people.
Not a single morning passes without me having contemplated race before I’ve had my first cup of coffee; I don’t pass the Hispanic woman cleaning windows at my gym without thinking about immigrants; I don’t thank the woman wearing a hijab, who bags my groceries, without thinking about bigotry; never do I kiss my daughter on her forehead at the end of the day without thinking about her future as a Black woman.
I am a member of the privileged white class whose numbers are dwindling (have you watched Race 2012 yet? How about America By The Numbers?). Still, white remains the barometer of all that is normal, the yardstick against which everyone of any other skin color is compared and like most of my white counterparts, I’ve had it easy. Thanks to my blended family, I’ve also had an awakening. I’ve always held the same fundamental beliefs, but before Ruby, I was a toddler on the spectrum of understanding. As a Black friend of mine lovingly likes to say, I’m now an angry Black teenager. I quite like that.
So. My problem writing each post for Race 2012 isn’t lack of topics or angles. Race issues always come back around to politics. One cannot watch our president on a stage next to Mitt Romney and not think about race and what that means to them. One cannot watch The Choice: 2012, a Frontline special on the candidates, and not see the struggle for identity that defines Obama, and the lack of a comparable experience in his opponent. To pretend not to see it, is to not talk about it. And not talking about it doesn’t help us move toward a more equitable and just America.
Fortunately, people are choosing to do it, even when it scares them. One of my fellow bloggers, Sarah Auerswald, wrote a very honest piece today about being afraid to talk about race, even as she has decided to blog about it. Writer Stephanie Spencer (not involved in this project, but someone who could be) also wrote a come-to-Jesus piece on her blog about becoming aware of her white privilege. The angst in both posts is palpable and relate-able and their willingness to admit their fears and failings as they confront issues of race is precisely what needs to be happening right now.
I said it in an earlier piece, that that the election of a Black president has provided inspiration for people of color all across this country. A friend of mine told me during dinner one night last month, that Obama has shown her son “that there is another way to be a Black man.” This is significant in ways that nearly defy description. But one of the greatest gifts bestowed on our country by the election of Barack Obama, has been the giant spotlight it has focused on racism, small and large. As it happens, having a Black man in the White House (which was built by slaves, by the way) has served to bring racists out in daylight, away from the shadows of political correctness and out from behind the armor of the long-accepted myth of colorblindness. Barack Obama may be reticent to talk about race—and for arguably good reasons: he’s damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t—but he’s been a great conduit for the rest of us.
People of color have been engaged in real talks about race for generations. It’s time white people started doing the same, even if it is scary and uncomfortable. I wonder: What are you doing reader, to talk about race in your life? Are you talking about? Are you fighting for justice and equality? Are you, too, in the angry black teenager stage? Because I’d like there to be more of us.
If you missed the premier of Race 2012 last Tuesday night, you can watch it again tonight when it is rebroadcast (check your local listing for air time). Or you can hunker down with your laptop and watch it right here:
In the spirit of the blogging project launched by Monica’s Tangled Web, I have to share an on-point piece from Jack & Jill Politics. I didn’t write this piece, but “Dear Black People: You Are Invisible and Irrelevant” captures some of my thoughts since watching the debates and then the PBS documentary. I have my own thoughts to add, but for now I’m stuck on Dear Black People. This part right here really struck me:
“These debates have taught me one thing. In the eyes of the debate organizers and most of the viewers, the plight of Big Bird is far more important than the plight of my people. “Binders full of women” are more important than prisons full of black people.”
Read that piece and then consider the dialogue that has engulfed our country in the wake of each debate. Put in such crisp perspective, it’s hard to deny that race is both a fundamental part of this election and also the thing that nobody wants to really deal with. Not the media, not the candidates, not the moderators, and not certain voters. I continue to shake my head at the notion of a post-racial anything. We are so far from where we need to be.