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It Is What It Is or Is It?

“Any fool can know. The point is to understand.” – Albert Einstein

Writing about a sensitive subject is challenging. People are touchy, especially when they are in denial. We all tend to see what we want to see and choose to ignore things that make us uncomfortable.

I decided to disclose an event that a friend recently shared with me. As I often do to protect people’s anonymity, I use aliases instead of the names of the persons involved.

Minnie is a neighbor of mine. She and I have a mutual acquaintance, Addie, who also lives in the neighborhood. We have known Addie since her two sons and daughter were young children. A few years ago, her then twenty-something-year-old daughter, Leslie, left home and eventually returned as Lester. Addie would later confide in us what we had already realized, “My daughter is now my son.”

We don’t know if Leslie had GRS (gender reassignment surgery), but we accepted the transition when she returned home sporting a buzz haircut, wearing men’s clothing, and purporting to be a male.

One day, Minnie went out to run an errand. While she was gone, Lester knocked on her door. Getting no answer, Lester left a note that Minnie found stuck in the door jam upon her return. He asked Minnie to phone him concerning an old sofa that Minnie had made known that she was selling.

Minnie was no more familiar with Lester’s telephone voice than I was. She said when she dialed the number and asked to speak to Lester, she was expecting to hear a masculine voice; instead, an androgynous voice answered and said, “This is she.”

Minnie said she was momentarily confused by the response and asked again to speak to Lester. Again, the voice replied, “This is she.” At that point, Minnie said their conversation proceeded.

Minnie asked me what I thought about that episode. “Let me be clear,” I said to her. “When Lester answered the phone, did he say, ‘This is he’ or ‘This is she?” Minnie said, “He distinctly said, ‘This is she.’ There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.”

That led us into a head-scratching discussion. Was “This is she” a Freudian slip, a memory lapse, or something else? What? It seems strange that someone who takes pains to ensure that people like us who knew him when he was her and folks who have only known him since the transition would make such a flub. Yet, he used the inappropriate pronoun twice when referring to himself as she. If trans people are confused about who they are, is it any wonder that some heterosexuals are also confused by them?

Not to be judgmental, I don’t care if someone chooses to change their birth gender. That’s an issue between them and God. Maybe one day in the hereafter, they’ll have to face the consequences of their decision – or perhaps they won’t. But I like to think that if I assume a different persona, I’d remember who I believe I am.

To try and understand transgender people and others like Lester, I recently read a book entitled Trans Life Survivors by Walt Heyer. I am satisfied that it has answered many of my questions.

Before anyone sarcastically asks, “What does he know?” let me give Heyer his props. He is not just someone speculating about transgender people. He is a man who transitioned to a woman. After living for several years as a female, he decided his sexuality was not the root of his unhappiness and detransitioned back to male. He has written numerous books on the subject and his personal experiences. He also has a website.

An article on cnn.com states that The Philadelphia Center for Transgender Surgery posts cost estimates for different procedures, including estimates of $140,450 to transition from male to female and $124,400 to transition from female to male. The message that Heyer conveys in his book is that cross-sex hormones and surgery will not cure underlying mental conditions. He further details how trans lobbyists and “surgical predators” (money-hungry doctors) take advantage of vulnerable people. Some transpeople become so confused and unhappy after transitioning that they consider or commit suicide. Unfortunately, among the suicides are two well-known personalities, 44-year-old transgender comedian Daphne Dorman, featured in a Netflix special, and transgender activist Kyle Scanlon, who killed himself at age 41.

I suspect some of my relatives, friends, and acquaintances won’t dare read Heyer’s book for whatever reason. Some of us have trans relatives and don’t want to risk offending them. (Since when did educating oneself become offensive?) Educating ourselves about anything does not mean that we are being judgmental. On the other hand, it doesn’t mean that we are compliant with groupthink either.

Some data I gleaned from Heyer’s book and already suspected:  No amount of surgery or hormone treatments changes the fact that we are created male and female, and adopting an opposite-sex identity is a futile pursuit. DNA and genetic information are indeligible markers dictating that it is categorically impossible to achieve a sex change biologically, scientifically, or surgically.

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Reflecting on Juneteenth the Day After

Yesterday was Juneteenth, and my cousin, Velda, phoned me to share her memorable “Juneteenth” experience.

Many cities, including the District of Columbia, have celebrated Juneteenth for several years. Still, yesterday was the second Juneteenth federal holiday since President Biden signed a bill declaring it so two years ago.

I will stretch my optimism here by saying that many black people know what Juneteenth commemorates. Informed white folks do, too. But for my readers who don’t know the history of Juneteenth, here is a mini-lesson:  After slavery was abolished in January of 1863, many enslaved people in the South – Texas particularly – didn’t learn that they were free until June 19, 1865, two-and-a-half years after the Emancipation Proclamation. Thus, numerous black Americans celebrate Juneteenth, the oldest nationally renowned commemoration of slavery in the United States, as our Independence Day.

So, Velda said that she was in a store yesterday, walking along an aisle, minding her own business, and proudly wearing her commemorative Juneteenth tee shirt. (Not the shirt pictured above.) At one point, she passed a young white girl, who my cousin guessed was in her early twenties. The 20-something girl looked at my cousin, noticed the colorful Juneteenth tee shirt she was wearing, and said (wait for it) – enthusiastically, “Happy Juneteenth.”

Velda, pleasantly surprised, said, “Thank you.” And they both smiled and went their way. Because we often think alike, my cousin was eager to share her experience with me, and we both agreed it was an interesting, unexpected, and yet promising event. I think it also made a difference because her interaction was with an open-minded young person, not some set-in-their-way MAGA cult member, young or old.

Some unbiased (and naïve) people reading this will think, So what. It’s no big deal. Ordinarily, my cousin and I  might not think so, except that the interaction occurred in the traditionally red state of North Carolina, where she lives. And we know that the unscrupulous 45th president has raised the heat beneath the pot of racial tension from simmering to boiling over, north to south (mainly south). Therefore, as black people, we are wary when encountering an unfamiliar white person because we can only guess whether our chance interaction will produce a warm, pleasant greeting or a tense, icy stare-down.

According to Yahoo! News, James E. Causey wrote in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, “While Juneteenth is a celebration, it is also a day of paying homage to the ancestors who lost their lives while shackled, chained, and stacked on top of one another in slave ships that crossed the Atlantic Ocean.”

In addition, Mr. Causey’s column addressed a recent controversy in Greenville, South Carolina, concerning a Juneteenth ad featuring a white couple on an advertising banner promoting the holiday. According to his article, many black people feel the white couple should never have been the face of an African American event. As with most controversial topics, that’s debatable.

Nevertheless, people of all races should celebrate Juneteenth. Then maybe cousins or anyone else won’t feel surprised when a person of a different race wishes them, “Happy Juneteenth!”

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Reflecting on the Dark Side

 Co-written with David White

My cousin, David, is a deep thinker, much more so than I am. I often marvel at his insight and what I see as his skill at analyzing situations. He is also very modest, so I’m sure he will admonish me for gushing over him in this post. But I call it as I see it. In addition to many things my cousin and I have in common, our intense dislike for small talk and delight in engaging in stimulating conversations often lead us into deep discussions, usually about politics and social issues. And since at least one (moi – and perhaps both) of us dislikes marathon phone conversations, we primarily correspond via email.

Yesterday, inadvertently, on the eve of Black History month, our topic was the Tyre Nichols tragedy. I did not watch and have no plans to watch the infamous video. Whenever a newscast predictively includes a portion of the videos, I change the channel or mute the TV and look away. I DON’T WANT TO SEE IT. The whole situation has become a repeat of an ongoing practice that keeps many of us (black people) in a perpetual state of sorrow for the victims and their families. The needless killings keep repeating like reruns of old TV shows.

Copicide, as I call it, is a modern-day Shakespearean-type tragedy not made for TV. Here’s how I described the plot of the ongoing series on my FB page: “Unwarranted murder by cop. Heartbreak and outrage expressed by the family. Calls for justice by Crump and Sharpton. Protests by activists. Expressions of regret and condolences to the family by city officials. Calls for reform by those same officials and politicians. Hashtag, here we go again. Second verse same as the first.”

As he often does, my cousin impressed me when he laid out his perspective.

I could write a dissertation on my feelings regarding the Tyre Nichols situation. It is so painful. But humans who feel they are licensed to hierarchize human life on a scale of “more or less worthy of humane treatment ” leads to this – one of the reasons (among many) I’m against the death penalty. Once you deem someone else’s life worthy of less respect than you would give your own, it logically proceeds that things like this happen. It gives [carte-blanche, my two cents] the authority and power to act on those prejudices.

I didn’t watch all of the videos but [saw] enough to know what it was about … Everyone intuitively knows that if that young man had been white and every other circumstance were the same, there would have been a totally different outcome, if any incident at all. 

I worked at a prison, and I know how easy it is for people to be depersonalized and dehumanized. And, to get into the racial part … Eddie Glaude on MSNBC alluded to a Baldwin citation, which I can only attempt to paraphrase. [He said] that racism becomes a systemic way to view others, and blacks can easily assimilate that same racist attitude given the right conditions. It makes it much more painful because many black people are oblivious to how we have adapted and internalized the attitudes we ostensibly rebuke.

I will never forget how hurt and ashamed I felt while walking the historic campus grounds at the predominantly white University of North Carolina. I passed a large group of black students in front of the main library and heard one female approach another person (a male, I believe) and, with a smile, greet him with “Hey nigger.”

Keep in mind that scores of students (mostly white) were making their way to and from classes at that time. I wanted to find Star Trek’s Scottie and have him beam me to my dorm and erase the memory. I’m sure they [the black students] thought they were being hip, cool, and defiant by uttering such an offensive word, and in their mind, making it powerless or some mark of distinction. But I know what they were really saying is “You may be at a white school, you might be academically gifted, but I see you the same way a lot of these white folks see you.”

That’s the sentiment that comes to mind when I hear about [the Nichols tragedy].  

 I know I’m going to sound like an old fogey, but whenever I hear the N-word, it jangles me. I will never be comfortable with that word, and it pains me when I see young people blasting their music, and every other word in the song is N-word this and N-word that, and white and black [people in proximity] hear this. I feel [that those who use the N-word] have an [warped] idea about what racism is and what it is not. For example, some think that a particular effect, attitude, and worldview make you “black.” And if you don’t conform to [that way of thinking], then you’re not really black.

When I was in college, many students dropped a class if they didn’t see any other black students taking the course because they had assimilated the idea that there are certain places where they don’t “belong;” not because anyone overtly told them that but because they had been acculturated to believe it. That’s why [some people] can treat a black stranger entirely differently from a white stranger and not see how that is a form of racism.  

Not to throw fuel on an eternal flame, I’m piggybacking on David’s thoughts about the intricacy of racism and the angst it causes by adding one more thing. I did watch the video showing an intruder’s break-in at the home of now-former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. When the door opened, the police saw a hefty-looking white guy grasping the arm of Peloski’s elderly husband with one hand while welding a hammer in his other hand, and the intruder still lives to talk about it. I’ll leave that right there.

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The Gift: Contemplating the Black Doll, White Doll

“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.” ― C.G. Jung

In this Sunday’s Washington Post Magazine, Damon Young wrote a column titled, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” Young’s column is published weekly on the inside back cover of the magazine in the space previously utilized by Gene Weingarten, a former syndicated humor columnist for the paper.

Young, a noted journalist, has written for numerous newspapers and other publications and is also the author of What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Blacker: A Memoir in Essays. In addition, he is the winner or nominee of several awards, including the NAACP Image Award. He has earned his props.

Since Young began publishing his (humorous?) perspective columns in The Washington Post Magazine, I’ve read many of them. One that impressed me, entitled “The Whitest thing I’ve ever seen,” was about the infamous Will Smith slap at the Oscars.

The column in today’s paper flashed me back to an afternoon decades ago, sometime in the mid-1980s. One of my former employers, Harper (Note: I am using pseudonyms for my employer and all of his family members) and his wife had invited me to their home to visit with his adult daughter, Sandy, and her first child, a daughter Ashley. If I remember correctly, Baby Ashley was around three or four months old.

Sandy’s husband, Nick, may have been there too, but I don’t remember seeing him. I had an excellent relationship with these people and had met Sandy on a few occasions before when she had visited her dad from her home on the West Coast.

I could go on about the genuine friendship I had with this family. I liked them a lot, and I feel those feelings were reciprocal, but I want to cut to the chase and reveal how this ties in with Young’s column.

Before visiting the Harper’s home that day, I had contemplated what gift to buy for the baby. I figured that perhaps baby showers and the couple’s friends had already brought numerous presents for Ashley. However, I wanted to give her something unique, so that’s what I got.

After I gave Sandy the nicely store-wrapped gift box during my visit, she opened it to discover a beautiful black baby doll for Ashley.

Some people might question my gift choice, but I saw it this way. Although Sandy and her husband are white, I felt they would have no problem with the black doll. (For my readers who may not have noticed from some of my previous posts, I’m a black woman. Now, back to the topic.) I usually bought black dolls for my daughter but wasn’t bothered when she was gifted white dolls (as she sometimes was). My cousin, Andre, had even sent her a Cabbage Patch doll when he was in the military and stationed in Germany. I still have that doll in my home.

If I were right in thinking that Sandy and her husband were as open-minded and socially conscious as Sandy’s dad, then I knew they would see nothing wrong with diversifying their daughter’s doll collection.

Sandy thanked me and expressed her appreciation. Several months later, I don’t remember whether Sandy sent me a note or if her dad delivered the message, but Sandy wanted me to know how much the child was enjoying her doll. Ashley is a grown woman now, and the doll — I don’t know what became of her.

After reading Young’s column this morning, I was a bit irritated and had some serious cognitive dissonance going on. I was questioning my gift choice all those years ago while at the same time feeling disturbed by Young’s reaction to his daughter’s white doll.

I saw no harm in my choice for Ashley’s doll collection, which I figured would likely grow as she would. But talk about second-guessing a done deal. Young’s column had me wondering if my idea had not been good despite how it seemed at the time. After I left the get-together, did the Harper family react the same way the Youngs had toward the white doll? Did they contemplate what to do with the black doll? My gut feeling says no.

Click on the link to read Young’s column, “Someone gave our daughter a White doll. How do we, um, “disappear” it?” And, since I am always curious to know what my readers think, I’d appreciate your comments on this post.

 

 

 

 

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Guess What Day It Is

Guess what day it is? I sound like the hump day camel, don’t I? Well, it’s my birthday, so I can be giggly if I want to.

Yesterday, my neighbor baked me a pineapple cake to die for. (Yes, Word Police, I know that sentence ended in a preposition, but this is my party.)  Aside from being grammatically incorrect, to die for was also probably a poor choice of words considering that I am on the downside of the hill. Nevertheless, I ate a slice, and that cake was delicious. Thank you, Hazel.

If I place a single candle on the remaining cake, then make a wish and blow out the candle, my wish would be for world peace.

Where has the time gone? I feel like the years have passed like falling dominoes. Wasn’t it just yesterday when I was only ten wishing I was a teenager, and then 18 wishing I was 21? And along the way from then to now, I kept wishing – to be a wife, a mother, a social activist, a published author. Finally, at some point in time – not dictated by me, but assigned by the Higher Power who controls all – I achieved all of those earlier goals and then some. I have a few other things on my bucket list, and I hope to realize those ambitions before running out of tiles.

I’m not and have never been materialistic. Simple things in life make me happy. Knowing that my loved ones and friends are safe. A comfortable home. A good book. A tasty cup of coffee. I thank God every day that I awake to see another sunrise.

I often think about what I’d tell my younger self when she wished to be grown. I’d tell her . . .

  • You will always encounter naysayers throughout life. But, don’t be discouraged by their negativity. When they tell you that you can’t accomplish something, continue to pursue your dream and prove them wrong.
  • The world is filled with disgruntled people who will lash out at every opportunity about everything and anything instead of counting their blessings. Don’t let their unhappiness disturb your peace.
  • Keep in mind that there is no level playing field, and life is not fair. There are slopes, potholes, and other hindrances along the way waiting to trip you up. When you fall, and sometimes you will, rise up with even more determination. And let your mantra be the words of Nelson Mandela, “Do not judge me by my successes, judge me by how many times I fell down and got back up again.”
  • Don’t yield to racists who will stereotype and try to define you and then claim that you have a victim mentality. Define yourself. Show them that you descend from warriors. You are a survivor.

I have numerous other life lessons that I’ve learned and want to share with you, little girl, but I’ll save those for some other time. Meanwhile, keep in mind the words of Nikki Giovanni, “I really don’t think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don’t mind the failure, but I can’t imagine that I’d forgive myself if I didn’t try.”

It’s your day — enjoy it!

 

 

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