Going Rogue or Somewhere Over The Rainbow
I had dinner and drinks last night with two friends from my adoption group. One of them has three adopted children. Her eldest, a 7-year-old son, is from Haiti. My friend went there to meet him when he was ten days old. She lived there for 100 days, as is the requirement of all adoptive parents. She and her husband stayed at the Hotel Montana, a place she will never be able to revisit because, like most of the buildings in Port-Au-Prince, it was flattened in the January 12th earthquake. Her son’s homeland is demolished, his people suffer more than they did when he left there and what remains is part of his story. The anguish this tragedy has caused my friend and her family cannot be understated.
Not surprisingly, the number of orphaned Haitian children has spiked exponentially, with parents going so far as to relinquish their kids to orphanages in the hopes that they might receive food, water and medical care. It’s a terrible problem, the solution to which will require leadership, international cooperation, many open hearts and some innovative thinking.
However.
An overflow of “orphans” does not mean there is a giant green light in the sky giving the go-ahead to any Tom, Dick or Job who fancy themselves in God’s image, to swoop in and label children with name tags, tell them they’re going to Disneyland and secret them off to be raised up right. Even if they were “just trying to do the right thing,” as their spokeswoman initially claimed. And even though they have since admitted they knew what they were doing was wrong. Does that bear repeating? Yes, I think it does, and in all caps, too:
This group of self-important crusaders—without adoption experience or proper paperwork or association with an orphanage or even knowledge of international charity—people who probably didn’t know two weeks ago whether Haiti was to the West or East of Boise, KNEW WHAT THEY WERE DOING WAS WRONG.
Another term for it would be “illegal.”
The now-jailed Americans are members of the Southern Baptist Convention, an organization “which has extensive humanitarian programs worldwide,” according to the Associated Press. Which begs the question: With the many “extensive humanitarian programs”—aka, bribery in the form of salvation in exchange for acceptance of a Western view of God but let’s not split hairs—wasn’t there a more appropriate and organized outlet for these nice folks from Idaho to display their do-goodery?
Something tells me they didn’t need to airlift themselves to Haiti to find what they were looking for. Like Dorothy, they could have gone into their own backyard if they wanted to be heroes. I suppose it does help one’s image as The Great White Hope if you’re saving impovershed black kids, as opposed to white ones. Memo to the Renegade Ten: Though perhaps not in the potato state, there are plenty of the former in the foster care system right here in the U.S. of A. In fact, they wait approximately 9 months longer for a placement than their white counterparts. Sure, 9 months is a longer wait than a flight to Haiti. But hopefully, it will be less time than the sentence you receive.
These selfish, presumptuous people, who knowingly engaged in child trafficking, have put unnecessary stress on the decimated Haitian judicial system and will end up doing the same here in the U.S., where they will likely be prosecuted. They hurt proper adoption practices in Haiti, which are currently stalled. They are taxing the relief efforts of organizations on the ground, since now they need to be housed and fed and looked after, which is to say nothing about the one who has required medical attention. And now their lawyer has the balls to say they’re being treated poorly, that “[t]here is no air conditioning, no electricity. It is very disturbing.”
Disturbing about covers it. I feel really sorry for their plight. They must be suffering so.
Like a timeout for a toddler, they should sit in that jail cell until rainy season so they can contemplate the nature of what they did in their Lord’s name.. They should be left to feel a little bit hungry as they think about the entitlement which led them to believe that rules and laws and formalities and bureaucracies don’t apply to them. Then they should be brought home, prosecuted and sent a bill for expenses.
Who wants to place bets they get off with time served and glowing interviews on all the morning shows?
It’s most certainly not comparable to Trent Lott’s comment
Michael Steele is a peach.
The Republican Party’s chairman and blackface (double entendre, intended), is calling for Senator Harry Reid to step down as US Senate Majority Leader over a purportedly racist comment he made during the 2008 election. In the forthcoming book Game Change, Reid is quoted as having said that Barack Obama would be a viable presidential candidate because he is “light-skinned” and had “no Negro dialect, unless he wanted to have one.”
Educator Fail: Maybe certain grownups shouldn’t be allowed to use scissors—or teach
At James Madison High School in Brooklyn a few weeks back, two teachers were busted for being naked in the classroom while students were at an assembly. And last week at Congress Elementary School in Milwaukee, a teacher lost her mind in front of her students.
First grader Lamya Cammon was playing with her braids, the ends of which had little purple and yellow beads—or clicky-clackies as we call them in my house—and her teacher asked her to stop (we don’t call them clicky-clackies because they’re quiet). When the child didn’t listen to presumably repeated requests, the teacher coaxed her to the front of the room with the promise of candy, cut off one of Lamya’s braids, dropped it in the garbage and sent the child back to her seat.
After the teacher went all Delilah on the 6-year-old, she reportedly taunted the crying girl, asking whether she was going to run home and tell her momma. And then, Lamya says, she was threatened with this gem: “Don’t play with it no more or I’ll cut the rest.” Those are Lamya’s words, and, given the improper grammar, it’s clear this teacher’s discipline techniques aren’t the only area in which she perhaps could use a little refresher course.
As Ruby might say, with braids clacking and hands on her hips, What the fuck is going on here? And though F-bombs are generally discouraged for the 5-and-under set in my home, I’d have to give her big props on grammar, proper context and reaction commensurate with the situation at hand. Knowledge, after all, is power. Yes, I would use the word “commensurate” in discussing it, and we’d sound it out together. Then I might gently offer her an alternative: What the fuck, exactly, is going on here?
Sid Hatch of the Milwaukee Teacher’s Education Association wouldn’t discuss this particular incident but explained to a local news station that stress and frustration levels are inversely proportional to the ever-tightening budget constraints. To which I say: Well, duh. Cry me a Milwaukee River. The teacher has admitted she acted out of frustration, but regardless of reasons or apologies or budget cuts or workload, her actions—individually and collectively—are inexcusable.
I get frustration. I do. Believe me, very little could be as cathartic as taking a pair of No. 1 clippers to several of the neatly coiffed heads in my workplace. But I would get fired for that, and possibly charged with assault. So instead, I smile and sigh and self-medicate and entertain vivid Six Feet Under-style fantasies like shaving my boss’ head while singing the theme song from Hair. Once upon a time, I looked forward to retirement to assuage the misery, but that’s shot all to hell.
To be fair, teaching is a particularly thankless, high-pressure and largely undervalued job. I would argue that the only thing our society values less than teachers are children in general, and black children specifically, a point underscored by the Milwaukee Public School District’s here’s-your-$175-fine-now-go-back-to-work handling of the incident. That race plays a role in this story is so obvious as to be almost quaint. If, say, it were little blonde Linda—rather than little brown Lamya—who had a golden pigtail lopped off, there would likely be very different repercussions for the scissor-wielder. Which is to say, angry white parents are a force to be taken seriously. But enough about that tired old angle.
Maybe the kid was an insufferable brat, you might say. It’s quite possible, I’d respond. ’Cause cute as they are—these wide-eyed virus hosts—children can also be a major-league pain in the ass, and it’s not a stretch to imagine the mob mentality in a room full of 6-year-olds. The minute-to-minute aggravation must be exponential, and those goddamned beads, clicking and clacking and knocking and smacking on top of the other chaos would be like listening to triangle music over the sound of a jackhammer while reading about quantum physics.
Still.
Like I tell my daughter, you’ve got to take a deep breath and control your body. You simply must not, cannot, never ever, no matter what, haul off on a child with a pair of scissors. Lady: You are the reason they invented weed. And at the point when you find yourself behaving like, and having all the impulse control of, a first-grade bully, maybe it’s time to hang up that Gone Fishin’ shingle. Or time to get a job at a Catholic school where rapping knuckles and paddling bottoms and humiliating small humans is encouraged.
This woman gets an F for the day. Luring a child with candy? Cutting off hair? Threats and general neener-neenering? How about—oh, I don’t know—offering the child an elastic band with which to pull her hair back? How about a note home to the parents? I won’t go so far as to say this sadistic chick should be fired, but there are lots of teachers who could more appropriately handle the given situation—and do, everyday.
At the very least, she should be suspended for a time, sent to anger-management counseling and be required to do some sensitivity training. And, too, she should be forced to do community service in a barbershop where she’ll learn about black hair, what it means to the identity of a black woman and what goes into taking care of it. Maybe if she had to actually braid a black girl’s hair, she’d be less apt to snip it off. Not only does this woman’s piss-poor decision serve to create a defining moment for this child, but it will be years before Lamya’s hair grows back. The gift that keeps on giving.
Honestly, I would much rather have teachers boinking in the classroom (ballsy) than have them decide its time to release their inner esthetician (brutish). But I’m on an iceberg on this one: The Brooklyn love-in has been put to a permanent end with both teachers removed pending further disciplinary action. Miss Braid Remover will write her check and continue to model upstanding behavior for the youth of tomorrow. And—lo!—the world just keeps on spinnin’.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
And I finally weigh in on Anita Tedaldi
I’m late to the party but that’s because I’ve been mulling it over and doing a little background research.
Better late than never, though. So, I’ve begun over here.
There will be more.
Grateful
One comb out, a few tears, a great new stylist and 3-1/2 hours later (no, that’s not a typo), this is what her hair looks like. She chose the “clicky-clackies” and her birthmother chose me.
Go Figure
I have something to say about citizens bringing guns to Presidential events.
Which is perhaps more inflammatory than the swimsuit worn by that…person…in my previous post. Or, perhaps not. You be The Decider.
See how you feel about this one, and then have a happy weekend
Something is horribly amiss at this Ohio police department.
Ruby would like to know what her fellow Americans are going to do about it.
Hey, mister cop A couple ovaries and some white privilege can go a long way
“… I think it is time for white folks, faced with yet another story like the one emanating today from Cambridge, to do something else. Something that will illustrate that aspect of inequality about which we are more than a little expert. Namely, we must tell our stories: stories about our beneficent and preferential treatment at the hands of the same cops who regularly view our brothers and sisters of color with contempt.” —Tim Wise, author and anti-racist educator
When I lived in Pacific Beach around the turn of the century (I’ve always wanted to say that), my drive to and from work included a short but slow stretch along Loring Street. I always loved my drive home because I’d turn west onto Loring and just like the magic of a sea-and-sky horizon, all of my stress and worries that had accumulated during the day disappeared. Having been brought up in Utah, I cannot overstate the spiritual impact of seeing the ocean, rather than polygamists, at the end of my road each day.
And even though the beautiful Pacific was little more than a gray blur in my rearview mirror every morning, I liked my ride to work, too—especially on Thursdays. Thursdays were extra-good because, on Thursdays, there was a Sam Elliot-esque motorcycle cop standing at the side of the road, aiming his radar gun in my general direction.
I always made it a point to go the speed limit so I wouldn’t get a ticket. But a side benefit of 20 mph on a Thursday morning along Loring Street at the turn of the century was that I could practically see this man’s soul as I drove by. It looked pretty damned good tucked into all that tight, dark blue polyester.
So, one particular Thursday morning, I opened my eyes only to realize that my alarm had failed to go off which, ironically, is about as relaxing as waking up to the sound of a shotgun firing next to your ear. It’s funny how alarms don’t sound when they’re not set, isn’t it? As a result, I moved through my morning at a pace wholly unsuitable for someone who might drive past a cop with an active radar gun.
Completely distracted and fumbling with the faceplate (’memba those?) for my stereo, it wasn’t until Sam Elliott stepped away from his bike and motioned me to pull over that I realized what day it was. Shit, I thought to myself or probably even said out loud as I hit the brakes and veered toward the curb. Shitshitshit! The last thing I could afford was a speeding ticket. At least I didn’t run him down. That had to count for something.
I turned my engine off and, with my hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, watched as Sam Elliot walked / lumbered / sauntered / strolled toward me. He was moving in slow-mo, and I could swear now that the sun glinted off the front of his mirrored sunglasses. It was a typical socked-in beach morning, though, and any sunbursts or flares were pure invention, as was the Joe Cocker / Jennifer Warnes An Officer and a Gentleman duet that played in the background.
“Good morning,” Sam Elliott half-smiled at me from beneath the ’stache. Generally speaking, I don’t care too much for the hair-lip, but for this guy—who was better looking from a distance, as it turned out—I’d made an exception.
“Well, it is now,” I smiled back.
“Really? Why is that?” he asked me.
Love lift us up where we belong….
“Because,” I said, “I drive this road every day and, the truth is that for months now, I’ve been hoping you would pull me over.”
Where the eagles cry, on a mountain high….
“And why is that?” Sam Elliott asked again.
Love lift us up where we belong….
“Because”—and here is where I attempted to talk myself out of a ticket from waaay out on a limb—“because you are so devastatingly handsome, I wanted to get a closer look.” I flitted my eyelashes and leaned toward him through the window.
Far from the world we know, up where the clear winds blow….
He smiled bigger then, looked down at the ground and then back up at the sky. He wrinkled his forehead, maybe blushed a bit, and I’m certain his eyes squinted behind his shades. “OK, well—may I please see your driver’s license?” I handed it to him and he walked back to his motorcycle.
Shitshitshit, I thought. Did I really just do that? I cannot believe I just did that!
If I wasn’t already nervous and sweating from being late, now I was nervous and profusely sweating from being pulled over and from being a lowly jackass. Still. I was checking my Game Face in the driver side mirror when Officer Elliott re-appeared at my window with a notebook. He handed me my driver’s license and wrote me a warning ticket for going 35 in a 20 zone. That’s right: a warning ticket for driving 15 miles over the posted speed.
Sam Elliott told me to have a great day and then, almost as punctuation, took off his sunglasses and winked at me. Honestly, his eyes were better with the Ray-Bans on. But it didn’t matter to me anymore if he looked like Lou Dobbs because I’d accomplished my goal, even if I had to use my gender and my privilege to do it.
(As published on August 5, 2009 in San Diego CityBeat.)
And with this thought, happy weekend
“[S]omething is wrong when a black man can be arrested for disorderly conduct because he yelled at a cop on his own porch, but a mob of white, teabagging sheeple can disrupt town hall meetings with heckling, violence and threats, and THAT is considered protected free speech. Black professor = threat to the public. White mob = 1st Amendment heroes. People who think that’s perfectly fine = idiots.” -Tim Wise
Et tu, liberal? Et tu?
I’ve been following this story of the black students from Creative Steps Day Camp in Philadelphia for a couple of days now and like what these Harvard grad students have to say about it. One of the most disturbing parts of the whole thing—which they do not mention in their blog post but which Tim Wise highlighted on Facebook today—is that the President of the club which booted the children is a “liberal Obama supporter and head of the Philly area Peace Action group.” Wise goes on to summarize his point: “…he likes his black folks Harvard-educated only: none of those city kids from the hood…”
If you feel so inclined, read a bit about the incident and after contemplating the President’s explanation for the expulsion (“There was concern that a lot of kids would change the complexion … and the atmosphere of the club…”), let the racists at The Valley Club know what you think about them denying children a swim in their pool, despite the fact they’d paid to do so: